#OCS Tracking Number | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mydrink-n-my2step · 29 days ago

Text

YANDERE FARMER x TWITCH STREAMER READER

A/N: Howdy! I'm back again with a new series. My first ever fanfic series. I hope y'all enjoy, strap that cowboy of yours down and read this.

TW//: Smut, Bathtub masturbation, original character has you jorkin' his peanits, age gap (OC is 20, you are around 25), knives, spiders, teasing

5.8k words

“Fuck!”

Today was supposed to be a lovely day for you. After you had gained 2,000 followers on Twitch, you wanted to celebrate your win with your number one cheerleader: your grandmother. She had already bought you a celebratory cake and some balloons for your little party. Followed by a little gift from her. She had a charm bracelet from James Avery crafted for you with a gaming console and a little heart that says “I love my granddaughter!”

You had left her house over 45 minutes ago. She warned you about leaving at night into the woods. However, you reassured her that you would be fine. The car ride home was somewhat okay, until you saw the car battery light flash. Your car had alerted you as well. You were scared because you were in the middle of nowhere. The nearest Autozone was an hour and thirty minutes away. Shit!

A minute later, you could hear your car sputtering like crazy. It scared you when the car stopped on its tracks, leaving a tire imprint in the dirt road. You punched your car horn in a fit of rage, unaware of the fact that you might let someone or something dangerous know where you were. You retracted, remembering that your ex-boyfriend is a mechanic, and somehow you still had his phone number. Though it was a rocky relationship, you two did come to terms with remaining friends, so having his phone number seemed normal.

Okay, you dialed his phone number, waiting for him to pick up. “Hello?” He responds, sounding tired. You felt bad for calling him at such a late time. Though on the other end, he was busy bumping uglies with another girl he had found at a bar. “Hey, could you come help me? I know it’s on such short notice, but my car broke down in the middle of the woods.” For a moment, the other line went silent. Then, you heard someone click their tongue. “Girl you know how far you are? I’m not going to leave my bed at 11:34 at night to pick your dumbass up!”

“Well fuck you to then!” You said out loud for him to hear you. Then you heard a giggle on the other line. “You wouldn’t help your friend because you’re too busy fucking some other chick!”

“We’re not friends Y/n, I don’t befriend my ex.” was all he said before hanging up on you. Ouch! You wanted to rip your steering wheel of and throw it across the dirt road. Break something or whatever! You were so fucking pissed off at the piece of shit man. But not for long.

Behind you were blaring white lights from a truck that was coming by, you could hear the bass that was boosted, the person behind the wheel was playing Luke Bryan. You were in enemy territory. Pack it up.

Or so you thought? When the person parked in front of you and hopped out of his red and white 1990 Ford-250. Fear instantaneously overwhelmed you. You, a girl in the woods in a broken down car, with a random hooded man walking to it ever so slowly like he was plotting for your death! Okay Y/n, calm down. He’s probably wondering why you’re blocking the road. Maybe he is here to help you, be more optimistic–

Knock Knock!

The man’s gentle knocks still startled you out of your deep thinking. You were scared to roll your window down and talk to him. But the fear decimated a bit when he removed his hoodie. Only his hat covered his eyes and dirty blonde hair, which looked like it wasn’t taken cared of, but who cares.

“Are you lost?” He spoke, however his voice was faint from the window and the sound of his loud ass truck. You furrowed your eyebrows, you were seriously about to cuss this man out right now over your stupid ass ex. The man pointed his fingers down, indicating that he needed you to roll your window down. So you gave up, holding onto the pocket knife you had stolen from your grandma underneath the wheel by your knees, preparing to use it against him.

“Can I help you?”

“I um, see that your car has broken down. Do you feel comfortable coming with me while I tow your car to my place? I can get her fixed for free.”

“Uh, no, that’s ok, sir. I have a tow truck coming for me right now.” You lied, and it was pretty obvious too.

“You sure ‘bout that? Because there are no tow services for 65 miles onward. And nobody normally gets lost in our neck of the woods. Please, you don’t have to lie to me, just let me tow your car, I can get it fixed.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. He had noticed and was close to saying something but bit back his tongue. You exit the car, he held his hand out for you to take, hesitant, you looked at him. He seems to be genuine with his gestures. He took it anyway, walking you to his pickup truck to sit in while he hooks your car up to his truck. Once he was done, he climbed into his truck.

Something about this man calmed your nerves a bit, but at the same time, you wouldn’t let your guard down. Your left hand was still holding onto that pocket knife you took from Grandma’s. Your eyes wouldn’t leave his eyes, his auburn eyes that were finally visible and locked on the road ahead. You, a southern girl, weren’t too shy around country folk, however, you felt intimidated by this hulk of a man. You assumed he was around 6 feet 4, you were pretty tall yourself, and he seemed taller as well.

“What’s on your mind? You’re staring an awfully lot.” He asks, glancing at you for a brief moment before returning his attention to the dirt path. “Oh, um, nothing,” you said, placing the knife by your leg. It was pretty stupid of you to do so, and it was proven stupid when he hit a bump on the road, causing your knife to slice through your pants and skin accidentally. It wasn’t gnarly, but it was enough to bleed through your clothes.

“Shit,” you swore, causing him to stop on his tracks. The tall man faced you, noticing your hand was covered in blood. He sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt and exiting the truck. A few seconds later, you saw him on your side of the truck. He had opened the passenger door, and then he pulled his hoodie over his head, also taking his plain white t-shirt off. He folded it vertically. Wrapping it around your thigh and tying a knot around your thigh. When he was finished, he shut the door on you before you could thank him. He hopped into his seat for the last time, sighing in with an attitude in his tone. As if he told you himself that he wasn’t going to make any more stops until he made it to his house.

The minute he turned his way out the dirt pavement, he pulled into a driveway that led him to his garage. He had pressed a button that opened his garage. When the garage was opened, he drove straight inside, stopping his tracks when he hit something. The taller man had switched his ignition off, taking his seatbelt off to exit his car. You reached for the door and attempted to open it, unbeknownst to you, it had a child safety lock on it. Now you felt like an idiot for deciding to hitch a ride with him. Though you thought it was the end, the end of you, you heard someone open the door to the house: A child.

“Elizabeth, help me unload the trunk.”

“I won’t help unless you say please,” the little girl said, crossing her arms and turning her head away from her likely brother. He rolled his eyes, scoffing at her, “Please, Eliza?”

The girl finally complied, going to the back of the truck to help. When you would see them again, Elizabeth would make eye contact with you. She tilted her head with her eyebrow arched up. “Tannie, who is this girl in your truck tryna get out?”

“Fuck!” the tall man cursed, running to let you out. “You’ll have to forgive me, I have the safety lock on for Douglas.”

“Oh, is Douglas your son?”

“Um, you could say that.” Coincidentally, Elizabeth had opened the door, allowing a big dog to run towards you as you were climbing out of the truck. You nearly screamed when it barked at you. “Dougie, don’t scare our guest like that!” Elizabeth scolded, rubbing her free hand through Douglas’s blue and white fur. Douglas had twirled around and rubbed his wet snout against your hand. He wanted you to pet him. So you did, and were smiling at your action, lying on the floor to allow you to rub his belly.

“Oh, hi sweetie, it’s nice to meet you–um,”

“That’s Douglas, our Blue Heeler.”

“Ah, ok, I thought you had kids.”

“Tanner? Kids? No, he’s too shy around people,” the girl teased, laughing at her brother while he was glaring at her. “Elizabeth, get inside!” The tall man named Tanner said, walking off to tote your bags into his house. You hesitated to follow him inside. Not knowing what your next move was. Would you leave and find someone to take you home? Would you offer to sleep in your car instead of the house?

“Hey, whatcha standing there for? We have to get inside before the coyotes come getcha.” He teased, keeping the door propped open as he closed the garage and left. You had no other option, so your feet started moving, leading you inside the sibling’s house.

“Tanner, where the hell have you been?” A raspy old man’s voice spoke on your left. You turned around to see who it was. Another tall man who, this time, looks roughly in his mid-fifties, had black hair with silver streaks on the side, a thick moustache, and a jaw that screamed Stan Smith looked you up and down. Tanner set your bags on his side, going up to his father, whispering something to him. You noticed how tall the father was, he was merely a few inches shorter than his son. Elizabeth tapped your shoulders, she told you she would take your items into the guest room. You were relieved when you heard “the guest room”, your stressed-out mind finding some peace.

When Tanner was done talking to the older man, said man had walked up to you, apologizing, “My apologies my dear, you’ll have to forgive me, my son here often brings his friends over without my knowledge, but I see that you’re a hitchhiker looking for somewhere to stay while your car get fixed?” You nod, “Not much of a speaker, aren’t ya?”

“I’m very sorry, sir, it’s just been a long day, it’s a little scary being alone on the road in the woods.” You respond, taking in his features and trying to size him up a bit.

“I understand, it’s pretty dangerous out here. Hey Tanner, take the rest of this lady’s bags into the guest room.” The older man walked next to you and placed his arm around your upper back, leading you into his kitchen. He directed you into the dining room, where you assumed his wife was in, couponing. “Amelia, we have company.” He says to his wife. Amelia looked at you, a smile across her mouth.

“Hi there, stranger, nice to meet you!” She said, coming off as teasing. She had stood up, taking you in her embrace. Not wanting to leave her hanging, your arms snake around her back. “What’s your name, dear?” Amelia asks.“It’s Y/n, Y/n L/n.” You heard a gasp behind you. The older adults looked to see who it was, but you didn’t seem to care.

“Son, while you’re over there gasping, why don’t you direct Y/n to her guest room. My name is Dale, if you need anything, Tanner will be willing to assist you. We’re going to turn in, have a good night’s rest Y/n.” Dale says, leading his wife upstairs. Leaving you with Tanner, who only stood there with his mouth wide open and eyes dilated.

“Are you *insert Twitch Streamer name*?”

“Yeah, is there something wrong?”

“I love watching your streams!” He spoke, walking next to you.

“It’s an honor to meet you finally. You got me through high school!”

“High school? I just started streaming a year ago. How old are you?” You jokingly ask, but in all seriousness, you genuinely believe he was up there in his twenties.

“I’m 20!”

“20?” He nods, taking your hands into his bigger, callous hands.

“Yes, I’m 20. It may not seem like it, though. Y’know, you’re entertaining to watch.” He says, taking up the space between the two of you, his amusement at finally meeting his favorite Twitch streamer was making you uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, I think I should lie down. Where’s y’all’s guest room?”

“It’s down the hall, but you don’t have to sleep in that dingy room. You can sleep in my room, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Oh I don’t think that’s necessary, I can sleep in the-“

“It has termites!” He spoke in a hasty tone, he obviously wanted you to sleep with him.

“No, look, I’ll be fine in the guest room. I will only be staying for one night anyway, then I’ll be out of y’all’s hair.”

“Ok, good night then,”

When you entered the family’s guest room, you surveyed their overly decorated room. It had a cute aesthetic that you felt comfortable with as it reminded you of your Grandmother. From the mahogany vanity with cute family collections, to the family portraits that hung on the ribboned wall. Her house is nicely decorated too. One of the first things you had done was remove your bra and stow it in your suitcase, then, you got undressed by their huge mahogany vanity. It was not rare for you to admire yourself in the mirror while you are bare. In fact, it has become a quiet ritual—those still, in-between moments when the world faded and the only gaze upon you was your own. Sometimes, it felt like a kind of worship, not of vanity, but of presence. Of being. You enjoyed seeing yourself in mirrors—not just to catch a glimpse of your shape or the curve of a shoulder, but to witness yourself as you truly are, unguarded and real. And only your eyes could see the true you, not another person.

Until—you noticed a peeping Tom entering your room. Why haven’t you closed the door?

Douglas entered your room with a tennis ball in his mouth. When you acknowledged him, you immediately shut the door behind him. Maybe it was ok for the dog to see you, it’s only a dog. And…on a second thought—maybe not; you hurriedly rummage through your suitcase for your nightgown. Instantly throwing it on. Douglas hopped on your bed, still chewing on his ball. You sat beside him, running your hand through his coat. Looking back at the vanity mirror, you saw that the door was ajar, seeing a pair of auburn eyes watch you watch him.

“Tanner, what are you doing?”

“I umm—-was looking for Douglas. He ran off from my room. There you go Dougie!” He lied, taking the wet ball from him. Douglas cried, rubbing his wet nose against you, signaling that you tell Tanner to give him his ball. “Hey, why don’t you give your puppy his ball back?” Tanner obliged, but only threw the ball out of the room, the two of you watched Douglas scramble through the door, running as if he was a Scooby Doo character.

“I hope you know, I’ve been a subscriber since you were at only 100 subscribers.” He spoke with pride on his tongue. You only cringed at his words, but immediately changed your face when he looked at you with those puppy dog eyes.

“Thank you so much, I appreciate your honesty.” You half fibbed. Cheesing so he wouldn’t see how uncomfortable you were. You really wished at that moment a country bumpkin had picked you up instead of him. “Could we stay up, I want to learn more about you.” He asks, leaning his shoulder against yours before resting his head against yours. “No, actually, it’s pretty late. Why don’t we continue this tomorrow morning when you’re fixing my car.” Tanner sighs in a disappointed tone. He got off of the bed, walking to the door abruptly. He bid his goodbye and told you to sleep well, you told him the same, peeling the covers to crawl in bed then switching the lights.

A little over three hours later, Tanner couldn’t sleep. He had stayed up watching your previous streams on his laptop in his boxers. His fingers dangerously close to his groin as he watches you play your most recent game, Class of ‘09. Normally, he’s not a fan of vulgar content. Matter of fact, he despises vulgar, dark content, often watching your more tame content. As a streamer, you always make sure to check on your 200 viewers, making sure they aren't uncomfortable. One time, he had replied to your comment section, after you had asked what everyone was doing. Tanner mentioned that he was milking his cows while watching you. You, not believing him, merely laughed. He didn’t find it funny, though he loved seeing you laugh, even at him.

When he watches your streams, he feels as though you and him are the only people in the chat. You’re talking to him and ONLY him. As a fan, he felt prideful of having you at his house, sleeping in his guest room too. And maybe you will warm up to the idea of sleeping in his room. You will have to, he’ll make sure of it. Growing bored, he decided to go downstairs to pop his head in your room. Seeing your body rise and lower as you sleep. He wanted a closer look of you, so he creeped inside, making sure to avoid bumping into anything. As he walked closer, he felt a stir in his boxers. Oh God, not this!

He had instantly turned around, walking back into the light. Unaware of you turning to your side to face him. “Tanner?” you spoke, your morning breath prominent. He turned to look at you, you switched the bedside lamp on. Now you were scared again.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I-I, I left my…book in here. That’s why.” He lied straight to your face. He picked up his book, a family bible that was older than you and him combined. You were too tired to argue with him, so you switched the lamp off and went back to sleep. Tanner shut the door for you, his mind begging him to go back inside, even though you were so close to calling for Dale or Amelia. So he ignored his greedy mind, taking himself upstairs to go back to sleep. Later on today, he has some work to take care of on your car.

You for sure saw his pecker.

When you woke up, it was 9:30 am. Your nose could smell hotcakes on the stove. When you turned to the other side, you nearly punched the daylights out of Tanner. “Rise and shine! Mom made some breakfast for you.” You signed, eyes rolling as you sat up in your bed. Your fingers gripped the bridge of your nose, glaring at Tanner as he only smiled at you. Your glare was eating him up.

“I know this is your house, and that you are a big fan of me, but all I ask from you is that you give me some personal space, please, Tanner?” Tanner’s smile faded, his arms crossed as he–pouted at you? Why was he pouting at you?

“Okay, I’m sorry about last night. It wasn’t right for me to bombard your privacy.”

“Or enter the room unannounced twice,” you mumbled, “All I want from you is to fix my car and let me go home.”

“Okay, I’ll get onto that after breakfast.” Tanner leaves the guest room, keeping it wide open so everyone could see you. Elizabeth was in the kitchen with her mom, she noticed you exiting the guest room a little peeved. “Good morning, how did you sleep last night?” She asks, giving you a plate of hotcakes and bacon. “I slept fine, I just kept having a few visits at night.” You didn’t tell her who, so she assumed Douglas wanted to sleep with you.

“Douglas can be a handful. Come and sit with us, darling.” Amelia says, pressing her hand on your back and walking you to the dining room table. There, Tanner and Dale were talking about what work needed to be done on the car. You could tell it was their passion by how they were passionately arguing with each other on what to do to start your car battery. Once you sat down, the argument ended, Tanner had ignored his father while scooting his chair and plate to you. You gulped down your last remaining spit as your mouth was severely dry. Amelia had sent over a pitcher of orange juice for y’all to drink, so you immediately got a glass of that.

“Oh, good morning Y/n, it’s nice to see you and Tanner have made acquaintances.” Dale assumes. Tanner smiled at you, his big hand taking yours. You hastily removed your hand from his. Though he was visibly embarrassed, he still kept his smile on his face. “When breakfast is over, we will start working on your car. Imma need your keys by the way.” Dale continued.

“Thank you sir, I really appreciate the hospitality from y’all.” You really did. The family were extremely kind and were at access to your needs. “Well we appreciate the company. It’s only been a couple of hours, and you’ve already gotten Tanner out of his shell.” Amelia jokes, causing her family to laugh. You tried to ignore Tanner’s admiring stare at you, but your skin was burning from his stare. What was with this boy?

“Pop the hood, let’s see what we’re working with,” Dale told his son, watching Tanner open your car’s hood. He obliged, propping it open, being welcomed by the car’s problem. The fuse had blown. Not to worry though, the Jeffersons had plenty of unused car parts in their shed.

“I’ll go grab the thing and my tools, go tell Y/n what the problem is.” Dale responds, leaving his son to go behind his house. Ignorant to what his son was going to do.

Watching for his father, making sure he was leaving, Tanner had the opportunity to pull your pocket knife out. He stole it while you were asleep. He rubbed his index finger against the blade, making sure it was sharp enough to cut. He looked at his cut skin, seeing the blood threaten to trickle from his finger. He had to hurry, his dad knew where all the car parts were, he’ll be back soon.

He pulled out a random red wire, cutting it with ease. Before he heard his dad’s boots against the crunched up leaves, he stowed your knife into his pants pocket. Dale returned, unaware of what his son was doing. Tanner was the car mechanic; he knew more than anyone, so Dale assumed his son was analyzing the situation.

“Dad, we’ve got bad news.”

“What is it, son?”

“There’s a cut wire.”

“Damn, have you told Y/n yet? Or I’ll go tell her?”

“No, I’ve got it.” Tanner ran into his house. When he shut the door lightly, he tried to contain his smile, he was pretty proud of himself. Taking that risk so you could stay with him longer. His dad would assume that the wire was cut by a hooligan, and he’ll have to order a new wire and have another person fix your car. Now you’ll HAVE to stay with him.

*Knock Knock*

You opened your door, rolling your eyes when you saw Tanner again. You’re going to have to get over it soon. “How may I help you?”

“Y/n, bad news: your battery has blown a fuse, and there’s a cut wire. We currently have no spare wires so Dad is going to order one.”

Damn it, you curse in your brain. Your hopes of leaving this weirdo fan forever squashed by someone who was a bitch enough to cut your wire. You couldn’t help but cry a bit. Like literal tears were streaming from your face. Tanner, obviously consoling you in his muscular arms, rubbing his hand against your hair.

“I know you want to leave so bad. Leave me—to go back and make videos for us. But I’m sorry.”

You wrapped your arms around his thick torso. He felt as though the wind was knocked out of him because of you. What were you doing to him? He rubs your back, feeling your bare back, you still had no bra on. You still had no bra on!

He prayed for his body to reject his arousal. Thinking of weird things to get rid of those lewd thoughts. When he felt secured, he let go of you, looking down to make sure it wasn’t there.

“If it makes you feel any better, would you like to go visit some place with me?”

“Where, Tanner?”

Tanner had stopped his truck by a log that prevented him from going any further. When he got out of his car, walking in front to let you out, he opened the truck door, letting you out. When your feet were on the ground, he took your hand into his, leading you to the little pond boardwalk.

“I know you’re pretty tense right now, so I decided to take you to my favorite place to wind down. There’s no one around to bother us.”

“Oh, ok, thank you,” you said, sitting down on the boardwalk. Not aware of Tanner toting foldable chairs for you two. “I've got chairs if you want to sit comfortably.” He says, propping one open, then going for the next one. “You stood up, taking the chair next to him. Tanner leans back, his head hanging from the seat. You watch him, earning a smile on his lips. Something in you started to feel off. His juvenile smile, dusty blond hair, and his hulking build on a childish man. Fanboy behavior fighting his shy demeanor, his admiration towards you. Somehow, you didn’t abhor his admiration, you just wish he were less of a nuisance.

You weren’t aware, but you were staring at his sleeping body. Watching him breathe lightly as he napped. You didn’t want to stoop to his level of “admiration”, so you pulled your phone out and scrolled through your notifications. You took another look at him, this time scared.

“Tanner? Hey Tanner, wake up, hon!” Tanner’s eyelids pried open. “Something’s tickling my leg.” He says, disoriented. “I know, there’s a big ass spider on your leg.” Instantly, he jumped up, kicking the spider off his pant leg. You hopped out of your seat as well, your body shaking from the big wolf spider that was still crawling up his leg. The hairs on his body erected as the eight-legged heathen gradually crawled up his calf. And suddenly, you did the unthinkable, you told him to stay still so the spider would get flicked by your phone. He obliged, not moving a muscle, not breathing while he stood absolutely still. When your phone picked the spider up, it crawled on your screen, and then you flicked it off, causing it to land in the water below.

Without warning, Tanner wraps his bulky arms around your body and lifts you clean off the boardwalk like you weigh nothing. One second you were steady, the next your feet dangled in the air, heart skipping a beat at the sudden closeness. His scent hits you–clean sweat, his mother’s linen softener, the wooden smell of his cologne, something warm and alive. His grip was firm, a little too tight, but not uncomfortable. Just present—unshakably there.

Only did he realize that he was holding you in the air like he would to Douglas. Right hand on lower back, left on upper. He puts you down gently, clearing his throat as he is rendered uncomfortable with his actions. “Thanks,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low and rough with adrenaline. “For flicking it off.”

You acknowledged how rattled he still was. His thick fingers twitch against your back like the ghost of the spider had climbed there, and his breath fans your neck–hot, uneven. “You saved my ass,” he adds, and though it was half a joke, there’s a real edge in it. Like for a second, the spider wasn’t the only thing crawling under his skin.

“It’s okay, you seem tense, let me drive you home so you can take a bath. That usually calms my nerves.”

In the guest bathroom, you turned the bath water on. Running your hand under the cold water as it gradually turned hot. Tanner had waited for you on the bathroom’s vanity chair. When you weren’t looking, he locked the bathroom door swiftly. Once the water became hot, you told him to strip off his clothing. You were about to leave the bathroom when he took your hand and gestured for you to sit on his chair. What you were about to see was not something you agreed to. Tanner unbuttons his flannel and removes it, then along came his white t-shirt, and before he could start unbuckling his pants, you stopped him by placing your hand on his. “Honey, let me go so you can undress.”

“You’re still…coming back right?” You sigh once more, pinching your nose in shame. Do I really want to deal with this right now?

��Yes, dear, I’ll be back.”

When you returned, he was already in the bubbly water, waiting for you with that smug look you knew too well. His legs were hanging out of the tub, and the dusty blonde tips of his hair were wet. You rolled your eyes, and he chuckled, arms lounging lazily along the rim of the tub.

You grabbed his washcloth and soap, dipping both into the water until the cloth foamed. He watched you with a smirk as you worked—first lathering his arm, then his chest. When you leaned in closer, he tilted his head toward your ear and whispered, “This is your idea of multitasking? Bathing me and torturing me at the same time?”

His teasing made you sigh and pull your hand away. He groaned dramatically—half-laugh, half-whine—and caught your wrist gently. “Hey,” he said, grinning, guiding your hand back. In the moment of tugging and half-resisting, your fingers slipped somewhere you hadn’t intended.

You both froze, then burst into awkward laughter. “That–I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!” you muttered.

“Maybe it meant to happen,” he replied, eyes glinting, but his voice stayed soft, leaving the moment open—for you to decide where it would go next. When you continued your bathing, he stopped you, taking your hand and gliding it down into the bubbly water. You didn’t retract, only watching his molasses pupils take control of you. While your hand grasped his, y’know, you were shocked at how thick it was. He was a pretty big guy, maybe that’s why.

Suddenly, the room grew silent—and hot. The hot water that caused his skin to sweat also turned it pink. But that wasn’t the only pink on him. While he had your hand on his shaft, the warm water lapped gently around you both. Tanner’s breath hitched when you started jerking him off, muscles tightening above and beneath your touch. When he had the courage, he leaned closer to your mouth, wetting his lips while you were still touching him. He let his hand maneuver your head to face him, and then, he pressed his thinner, cherub pink lips against yours.

Tanner allowed his tongue to invade your mouth, teasing your slimy tongue with his. Your lips parted enough for him to play with your mouth with his pink organ. You had slowed your progress on his cock, distracted by the kiss. Tanner noticed right away, cupping your cheeks with his bear hands, “Please, don’t go anymore slower.” He had rested his forehead against yours, “I need you, Y/n, I need you so bad.”

What you were feeling wasn’t annoyance anymore. It was a mixture of multiple conflicting feelings. You were scared of being outed as someone who jerks off fans. And you feared that Tanner would tell people, even show it. But you couldn’t control your urges FUCKING hell you wanted this man and you can’t deny it anymore. From his chivalric behavior the other night to this, if your moral compass wasn’t the way it was, so conservative, so forbidding, you would’ve toppled this guy the night he came into your room.

It was only day one of you staying over at the Jeffersons, who knows how long you will be staying with this family. But here you are, pleasuring the eldest child. What is wrong with you?

Tanner was almost close; you could sense it. From him tightening his butt to his head thrown back against the tile wall. He had unlocked his jaw to moan, damn he moans like a girl, you thought, causing you to feel a twinged down your south tinseltown. He had you in his clutch, figuratively and literally, his strong hands holding your arms. He nearly cried from his pleasure, his body tensing up. And all of a sudden, you felt warm juices on your fist. Then on your cheek, you saw his cum dribble from his cock, and then came the orgasm thoughts that became words.

“I love you, Y/n, always have!” You pressed your finger against his mouth, realizing that someone had entered the guest room. “Tanner? Ms. Y/n? Where the hell are y’all?” It was Dale. You scurried into the towel closet, hoping Dale wouldn’t persecute you for what you’d done.

“Son, are you in here? I heard some weird noise, just say something so I can go back to what I was doing, I don’t want to confront you right now.”

“Yes, Dad, it’s me, I’m taking a bath!” Tanner yelled, taking the washcloth and finishing his wash. Dale responds with an ok, leaving the guest room and shutting the door behind him. “Hey, you can exit the towel closet now,” Tanner says, rubbing himself with the soap. You exit the closet, “You do realize that now you have to take another bath?”

“Yeah, and maybe,” Tanner stood up, he leaned to grab his towel from the towel rack, wrapping it around his torso, “you’ll join me?” You scoffed at his response, opening the door and leaving the room.

626 notes · View notes

sh4nksslvt · 3 months ago

Text

You Punched a Yonko?

In which the reader, quietly trying to study Poneglyphs in peace, accidentally punches a Yonko and ends up entangled with the flirtatious chaos.

PART 2 OF READER WHO CAN READ PONEGLYPH

red hair pirates x fem!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: shanks, benn, limejuice, hongo

tags: fluff, sfw, harem, soft

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ffs cringe and oc

words count: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You really weren’t trying to punch a Yonko.

In fact, your goal for the day was to peacefully study a centuries-old Poneglyph hidden beneath a sleepy island temple. Instead, you were now standing in front of a red-haired man grinning at you with blood trickling from his nose, surrounded by his crew, who all looked one second away from drawing their weapons.

“…Okay,” you breathed. “In my defense, you startled me.”

“You punched him in the face,” a blond man in sunglasses said, his voice straddling awe and amusement.

“Yeah, but like—accidentally.”

Shanks wiped his nose with the back of his hand, still smiling like you’d just offered him a drink. “DAHAHAHA strong punch though! You train often?”

“I didn’t know you were behind me! I thought you were a thief trying to steal the stone!” you pointed at the half-buried Poneglyph glowing faintly behind you. “You snuck up on me!”

Benn Beckman gave an exaggerated sigh from where he was puffing on his cigar. “He always does that.”

“You should wear a bell,” Hongo added dryly, as he examined your clenched fists. “You nearly broke his nose.”

“I think I’m in love,” Shanks muttered, still grinning at you like an idiot.

You blinked.

“…What?” You deadpan at him.

Lime Juice snorted. “I told you not to lean in so close when people are muttering to themselves. She was clearly in the zone.”

“I was reading an ancient, world-changing text,” you snapped, still frazzled. “I didn’t expect someone to breathe down my neck!”

“To be fair,” Benn chimed in smoothly, “not many people can actually read those things.”

That made you hesitate. Your breath caught in your chest. Most people only guessed at what the stones meant. And those who could decipher them—like the Ohara scholars—were erased for it.

The crew noticed your shift.

Shanks tilted his head. “Hey… you alright?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re being very casual about all this.”

“Well, you punched me.” He rubbed his jaw. “That kinda earns you a place at the table.”

“What table?”

“Our lunch table,” Lime Juice said, gesturing broadly to a blanket on the grass behind the trees. “We were picnicking. Captain wandered off to chase ‘Poneglyph energy.’”

“You tracked me?”

Shanks shrugged. “You glow like a beacon when you read those stones.”

Your jaw dropped. “That’s not—?! That’s not normal!”

“Nope,” Hongo agreed. “Very intriguing.”

“And very pretty,” Shanks added.

You turned on your heel. “I’m leaving.”

“No wait!” Shanks called after you. “Join us for lunch! I promise not to get punched again!”

You paused, hesitating. The idea of eating with the Red-Hair Pirates seemed… suicidal. You’d spent years hiding your ability, keeping a low profile, ducking Marines and bounty hunters alike.

But they didn’t look like they were planning to turn you in.

And the smell of roasted fish was really good.

“…I’m watching all of you,” you muttered, stomping over.

“Great!” Shanks beamed. “You can sit next to me! DAHAHAHA”

“Absolutely not.”

Lunch with the Red-Hair Pirates was insane.

You had to admit: they were nothing like you’d expected.

Shanks, despite being a Yonko, acted more like a chaotic older brother than a fearsome warlord. He kept nudging plates toward you like a golden retriever trying to feed its owner, all while regaling you with stories that involved an alarming number of explosions and nudity.

Benn Beckman, calm and poised, sat at your other side. He didn’t say much, but you noticed how his eyes never left you—watchful, calculating, but not in a threatening way. More like… protective.

“You always travel alone?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Easier to hide.”

He hummed. “Doesn’t sound easier to live.”

His words stuck with you longer than you cared to admit.

Lime Juice kept trying to impress you with “tricks,” most of which involved lighting things on fire or juggling knives. When he tried to balance a plate on his head and walk backward up a tree, you genuinely feared for his life.

“I’m very flexible,” he claimed proudly as he slipped and crashed into Shanks’ lap.

“Yeah, flexible like a bag of rocks,” Hongo muttered under his breath, flipping through a medical book beside you. Occasionally, he asked you questions about ancient glyphs and your translation methods, clearly more interested in your brain than your punching skills.

Which, okay, was kind of flattering.

You didn’t know when it happened, but by the end of the meal, you were… laughing.

You were laughing with people you’d met barely an hour ago. People who, by all logic, should’ve either kidnapped you or sold your secret to the highest bidder.

Instead, they argued about who could get you to smile the fastest.

“You like wine?” Benn asked, offering you a rare vintage.

“You like beer?” Shanks grinned, popping open a keg.

“You like really strong mystery juice I made last night?” Lime Juice offered, holding a bubbling bottle that Hongo promptly knocked out of his hands.

“Do you guys always compete like this?” you asked, bewildered.

“Only when it’s worth it,” Shanks winked.

You choked on your drink.

The day slipped by quickly after that.

You showed Hongo how Poneglyphs resonated when you hummed certain tones. He looked at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world and scribbled notes furiously.

You sparred—lightly—with Lime Juice, who was surprisingly nimble when not setting himself on fire.

You chatted with Benn about navigation, philosophy, and—when Shanks wasn’t listening—what kind of wine pairs best with sea-king meat.

And Shanks? Shanks hovered. Endearingly. Annoyingly. Constantly.

“You know, I could protect you,” he offered at one point, lying back on the grass beside you with a grin. “If you joined us. Nobody would ever dare come after you again.”

“Why would I ever trust a Yonko?” you teased, resting your chin on your hand.

Shanks tapped his temple. “Because I’m handsome and charming.”

“Debatable.”

“Because I didn’t press you about your ability.”

You paused.

“…Less debatable.”

He turned his head toward you, more serious this time. “I know what it means. What you can do. I know the world will hunt you for it. And I also know—without a doubt—anyone who tries will have to go through me first.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “That’s very dramatic.”

“Have you met me?” he grinned.

Before you could reply, Benn’s voice called over, “Captain, stop seducing our guest and help clean up.”

“I am helping,” Shanks called back. “With my charm.”

Benn just groaned and threw a towel at his head.

Night fell.

You sat with Lime Juice and Hongo near the fire while Shanks played a drunken game of darts with a tree (he kept missing) and Benn nursed a glass of something expensive, eyeing his captain like a babysitter on overtime.

Lime Juice offered you his coat when the wind picked up. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “you’re kind of amazing.”

You turned. “Me?”

“Yeah. Punching a Yonko. Reading the un-readable. And laughing at my jokes. Triple threat.”

You laughed. “Thanks, I think?”

“Don’t let Shanks hog you too much,” he added. “Some of us want a shot too.”

Hongo hummed behind his book. “I’ll second that.”

You looked between them, blinking. “Wait, what?”

Benn walked over, his cigarette glowing faintly. “They’re not joking.”

Shanks stumbled into the circle, arms wide. “Did I hear flirting?! I object! You’re all banned.”

You stared at the four of them.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that all of you are flirting with me… at the same time?”

There was a beat.

Then Shanks, Benn, Lime Juice, and Hongo all nodded in sync.

You buried your face in your hands. “This is absurd.”

Shanks grinned. “Absurdly charming.”

“I need a drink,” you muttered.

Benn passed you his glass without a word.

You didn’t leave the next morning.

Or the next.

Or the next after that.

Somewhere between watching Shanks get his foot stuck in a barrel, Lime Juice trying to build you a “romance swing,” Hongo diagnosing him with “chronic dumbassery,” and Benn pulling you aside just to ask how you were holding up, you realized something:

You were happier than you’d been in years.

For the first time, you weren’t hiding.

You weren’t running.

You were laughing. Living. Loved.

And sure, maybe the world still wanted your head.

But you had a Yonko, his second-in-command, a chaotic firecracker, and a broody medic wrapped around your finger.

If the world wanted to come for you?

Let it.

You had your crew now.

#one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #one piece #shanks #red haired shanks #akagami no shanks #benn beckman #shanks x reader #benn x reader #benn beckman x reader #hongo #lime juice #one piece x you #Spotify

739 notes · View notes

thanksbutno98 · 3 months ago

Text

Stressed Out

Simon Riley x wife!reader OC

Summary: Simon and his wife try for a fourth child.

Warnings: NSFW, smut, p in v, dirty talk, rough sex, masturbation, talks of pregnancy, mentions of infertility, not edited.

——————

“Stop fidgeting.”

“Shh.” You shushed Simon aggressively.

“Dove-“

“I said shh.” You shushed your husband again.

The two of you were sitting in a stuffy doctor’s office. Simon sat in a chair next to yours and the only reason he knew you were fighting was because the leather whined every time you moved. You felt incredibly uncomfortable being here and you regretted going this medical route.

You see, you and Simon had been trying to get pregnant for eight months now and had no success. It left you worried you weren’t able to have any more children. Simon being the lovable oaf you saw him as, kept telling you nothing was wrong. That sometimes it takes longer than expected and you stressing about it wouldn’t help. You had already had a blood test last month that showed your hormone levels were normal, now you wanted to know next steps.

When you brought up the idea of getting tested further to make sure everything was working properly the doctor recommended Simon leave a sample before you went that route. The number of crass comments that were made had the doctor turning a shade of red you didn’t think humanly possible. When Simon went to leave the sample you had gotten a barrage of text messages telling you how awful the porn they had was. It devolved into you taking a picture of your breasts in the women’s washroom. He was done before you had even made it back to the waiting room.

Now the pair of you were sat here, a week later, waiting for the results. Simon complained the entire ride here that they could have told you two over the phone. He was right. This had you nervous because in your mind the fact you had to come in person meant one of you was the problem as to why you weren’t getting pregnant. So either they needed to run more tests on you or Simons sperm count was low.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Riley. Sorry to keep you waiting.” The same doctor from last time came into his office with a friendly smile.

He was a short man and built like a runner. His hair was grey but he didn’t appear to be that much older than you. He wore a bright white lab coat and had his hospital ID hooked to the pocket.

“Alright, get on with it.” Simon sounded bored out of his mind. He could be so immature in settings like this, it made you want to throttle him.

“You’re both perfectly healthy. In fact, he’s extremely fertile.” The doctor smiled at you and pointed to Simon. Simon immediately started flexing his biceps like Johnny always did when he bragged about his latest escapade.

“Wait, then why aren’t I getting pregnant?” You blurted out and swatted Simon to put his arms down.

“I believe you’ve just been unlucky. That’s why I had you come in. I wanted to make sure you’re having intercourse effectively. We don’t tend to worry until it’s been a year of trying.” The doctor started shuffling things around his desk and you felt Simon gearing up to be a smart ass.

“Oh, it’s affective.” The crass joke had you and the doctor looking at Simon unimpressed.

“I’ll need to know how often you two are having sex, if it’s during the time you’re ovulating, and if you know how to track your ovulation. Penetrative vaginal sex is the most affective way to get pregnant. I assume that what’s happening. I did-“

“We have sex as often as she lets me. . . Which is often and she has me finish in-” Simon was grinning like a fool. Something about hearing that he was extremely fertile made his ego grown twice in size.

“Simon.” You hissed before he could finish his sentence.

You talked to him about acting like a normal human when coming here. You made him promise no crude comments and he was breaking his promise.

“Look at her. You really think I’m not pawing at her every chance I get?” This was not the time or place for your husband to start flirting but he didn’t care.

“Simon, behave!” You hissed again.

“Well, Mr. Riley.” The doctor seemed to be getting fed up with your husband.

“Stress can hinder a woman’s ability to get pregnant. So, maybe some self reflection is in order and you try to not upset your wife so much. Considering how worked up you’ve gotten her in my office both times now, it doesn’t seem far fetched you do this at home.”

——————

“Guys a fuckin’ quack.” Simon growled.

You were now chasing after him in the car park while he stormed to the car. Simon had some choice words after the doctor accused him of stressing you out. You apologized profusely for Simon’s behavior, picked up the chair he flipped, and then thanked the man. He wished you a sarcastic ‘good luck’ which you weren’t sure was meant for getting pregnant or being married to Simon Riley.

“Simon, you’re acting like an ass.” You told him but he didn’t seem to care.

He was standing at the car holding your door open and looking angrier than ever.

“Bastard accuses me of stressing you out? What a fucking joke!” Simon then let out a loud dry laugh that echoed through the parking garage.

“You do stress me out.” You told him flatly.

“No I don’t.” He rebutted.

You stared at him silently. A moment passed before Simon spoke again.

“Okay, maybe I do sometimes. But enough that it’s affecting you getting pregnant? What’s load of rubbish.” Another sarcastic laugh echoed against the concrete as Simon waited for you to agree with him.

You continued to stare at him blankly. His face dropped and he seemed to get your point now.

“Fine. I stress you out. Now get in the car.” Simon ordered and aggressively motioned with his hand for you to get in.

“Simon Riley!” You snapped at him.

“Okay, okay. I’ll work on it. I’m sorry.” Simon pretended to wave a white flag of surrender to hopefully get you to lighten up.

“Thank you.” You sighed in relief. Finally getting into the car Simon left a sweet, tender kiss to your cheek.

“Now, c’mon. I’ll fuck that sour mood out of you as soon as we’re home.” He joked.

“You better.”

——————

“Girls, settle down.” Simon was attempting to clear the kitchen table after dinner while his two younger daughters, six and four, ran around screaming.

“Mel, go get your homework done please.” Your oldest daughter who was twelve, nodded and made her way upstairs.

“GRACIE!” Fae screeched in excitement while pushing Simon out of her way to keep running circles around the table.

“FAE!” Grace screamed her name back from under the round kitchen table.

“ENOUGH YELLING!” Simon was now the third person to raise his voice.

“I’ll stop when you stop.” Fae immediately bit back at her father. She was now climbing on top of the table and doing a silly dance.

“Yeah! What Fae said!” Grace stomped her foot and pointed her finger to her big sister. She too was now climbing on to the table to dance a silly dance with her sister.

“Simon.” You warned before he shouted again.

“What?” He asked defensively.

“The yelling’s stressing me out.” You told him off handedly.

You had your mind preoccupied with the school paper work in front of you. There was an incident report sent home with Fae for fighting. It wasn’t anything physical but she had cursed a little boy out for pushing her friend to the ground. Apparently she called him a ‘brainless twat’ among other things.

“No more yelling you two.” Simon pointed at Fae then to Grace. They paused in funky positions, looked at each other, then continued to do their weird little dances.

“Not their yelling. Your yelling.” You spoke forcefully.

“We’ll stop when you stop.” Grace sang. She jumped onto one of the chairs then to the floor and ran over to her father to sweetly hug Simon’s leg.

“Alright.” Simon didn’t argue back and bit his tongue.

It was dawning on him that he was really stressing you out, even when he wasn’t acting out of the ordinary. Having served along side each other in the military, Simon knew you handled stress well. You weren’t one to lose your cool or really complain about being stressed. The past week or so you had been. It was unintentionally making Simon reflect on his behavior. To him he wasn’t doing anything he didn’t normally do but maybe things had been getting to you easier because you wanted to be pregnant by now.

Taking the dinner plates and putting them in the sink Simon continued to glance between you and the dishes. He started washing them by hand and couldn’t keep himself from looking at you every so often.

“Stop staring at me. It’s stressing me out.” You warned him without looking up from the papers in front of you.

“We need to find something that doesn’t stress you out.” Simon grumbled.

“You not being in the same room.” Mel quipped as she came into the kitchen, grabbed her book bag, and then went back upstairs.

“Don’t be a smart ass.” Simon called after her.

“I’ll stop when you stop.” Mel shot back.

Simon turned to say something to you but you already had your hand up to quiet him.

“You’re stressing me out.” This time you lied. You just didn’t want to hear him complain about everyone in the house giving him a hard time.

Simon sighed heavily and silently did the dishes. Every once in a while you’d hear a giggle as he playfully tried to shake Grace off his leg. Fae soon joined and little giggles would ring out every so often.

“Fae, why’d you call this boy in your class a-“ you paused to read the incident report again.

“A ‘fuckin’ fridge?’” Your voice elevated on fridge to show your confusion.

“Cuz uncle John called dad that once. So it had to be mean.” You could barely hear Fae as Simon broke out into uncontrollable laughter.

You had heard both Simon and John Price insult each other on many occasions. Only they replaced ‘fridge’ with any inanimate object that popped into their head. Your favorite was while deployed together, Simon mouthed off and Price called him a ‘fuckin’ turnip’ and then proceeded to throw equipment in Simon’s direction. It made you wonder if Price’s kids got in as much trouble as yours did. Or if they were out there calling classmates muppets, turnips, fuck wits, or any other insult they heard from their father.

After getting your children tucked into bed you went and took a shower. They had terrorized Simon to the point he had to sit on the top stair to calm himself down. Fae and Grace threw their stuffed animals at him and then playfully screamed and ran when he gave them a menacing look.

They had no intention of listening to him if he was reasonable, sweet, or shouting. Nothing would get them to behave for him and you could tell the moment you saw him trying to wrangle them both into bed. So you took over and sent him to decompress. Only the girls kept calling for him every few minutes. You heard him start his show over countless times and wondered when he would finally get fed up.

You were now trying to destress. It was hard for you to tell if Simon was the one stressing you out or if life was getting to you. Either way you needed to get yourself back in order.

Simon was usually a sarcastic ass, but he was your sarcastic ass. You loved his smart ass comments and how socially inept he could be at times. It’s what made him charming. Not to everyone, but you found him charming. He was your big, lovable, dickish husband and you wouldn’t want him any different.

After some reasoning you decided you had been tougher on Simon than you liked. Yes, he needed a swift kick in the ass every so often to behave. But today you were starting to think you were a little too harsh by telling him he was stressing you out. So, you checked your calendar to see if you really needed to get over what you thought was misplaced annoyance and seduce your husband.

“Simon!” You called from your bedroom.

The frustration was building for Simon. This felt like the twentieth time he’d been interrupted while trying to watch his show. He had just gotten comfortable on the couch with his beer and crisps. With an angry huff Simons large hand grabbed the remote to pause his show. That’s when he saw he was four minutes and twenty two second into the episode. Five minutes, he couldn’t go five minutes in this house without someone needing him.

“What!” Simon barked back. There was a few seconds of dead air when Simon heard the bottom two stairs creak.

“Well, I was going to tell you I’m ovulating but never mind.” Your once sweet voice was now coated in disdain.

Turning quickly to look over his shoulder, Simon saw you, his beautiful wife who was clearly pissed off with him. You were standing in the doorway of the living room looking annoyed.

“Coming!” Simon was up and scrambling around the couch.

“Not after that reaction!” You snapped back and went back upstairs. Simon stopped for a second, grabbed his beer and chugged the entire glass in under ten seconds.

“Dove, wait up.” Simon was taking the stairs two at a time and caught up to you in your bedroom.

You were ready to lay into him. Forget, forgiveness or admitting you’d been snippy today. Now you were convinced he was being an ass and he was responsible for why you felt so stressed out. Turning around, you had your finger ready to be shoved into your husband face and tell him just what you thought about him barking at you.

Only he shut you up fast.

Before you knew it Simons thumb was in your mouth and pressing your tongue down so you couldn’t speak. His fingers curled around your jaw and held your face firmly like that. He had a wicked grin and eyes darker than usual.

“Shush. I’ve stressed you out, let me make it right.” Simon purred.

Your eyes went wide staring up at this massive man you called yours. With little hesitation you shook your head, not sure how your husband had tamed you so quickly.

“Bend over the bed.” Simon ordered and you obeyed.

On your way there Simon helped remove your shirt, pajama bottoms and panties. This left you completely bare and now bent over your bed with your face resting against the soft navy sheets. You could feel the massive presence of Simon looming behind you but weren’t sure what his next move was.

You sighed out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding when you felt his warm, rough hands on your ass. His thumbs lightly pressed into the muscles and massaged them. Slowly his hands slid to your lower back and dug out the knots from there to your shoulders. Simon took his time giving you a thorough back massage with his clothed crotched pressed against your rear, until he was back at your ass and kneading the fatty flesh.

You couldn’t see him but you knew he had a smirk on his handsome face as he pulled apart your cheeks to get a look at your pretty cunt. Simons thumbs started to massage up and down the crease of your thighs and then to your pretty lips. It felt amazing and you had to be dripping from how good and relaxed your body felt.

“Hm, so pretty.” Simon hummed before flattening his tongue and licking a firm stripe up your cunt.

You gasped at the light contact and then gasped again at Simon’s tongue expertly finding your clit and rolling it under the muscle.

“Hmm.” Simon hummed into your cunt right before his tongue started to thrust in and out of your perfect little hole.

Simon didn’t spend long on his knees. Soon he was stripping out of his clothes and positioning himself behind you. He slid his massive length between your cheeks a few times and groaned at the contact.

“Ready, dove?” It was a question that needed no answer and Simon didn’t wait for one.

Pushing his hips forward slowly, your gummy walls wrapped around him tightly until his hips were flush with your ass. Grinding his hips forward you could feel the head of his cock nudging at your cervix. Taking Simon always felt like playing a dangerous game because of his massive size. Each and every time, those first few minutes were spent adjusting and fighting against the sensation of being split in half.

“Just relax. I’ll knock you up, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.” That thick accent you loved so much purred in your ear.

Placing his hands on either side of your head you stared at the tattoos on his arm. A sweet kiss was then laid on your temple as Simon began to roll his hips. It was measured, patient, calculated thrusts to warm you up. Breathing deeply your eyes fluttered shut and you enjoyed the sensation of going from slightly uncomfortable at the stretch to mesmerized by the way he slid in and out of you.

You were ready for Simon, his gentle pace meant you were soaking his cock. Carefully your wrapped your fingers around each of Simon’s wrists so you would have something to help ground you. It was a silent sign you were ready for him, you had been doing this since you were dating.

With a wicked smile Simon paused his thrusts for a moment and leaned down with his mouth by your ear.

“Hold on tight.” Simon’s voice was like honey in your ears and you gripped his wrists harder in anticipation.

The first thrust was hard but not has hard as he could go. It was Simon testing the waters. The thrust after that was almost all of his strength and you reacted positively by burying your face in the comforter and muffling your moan. Feeling you grip his wrists for dear life was the last positive sign Simon needed to start laying into you.

Thank god the fan was going and the tv was playing to muffle out the sound of skin clapping skin. Simon’s eyes locked on your plump bottom jiggling with each and every thrust of his. Your moans were muffled but he knew you would be screaming if the house were empty.

With every thrust the bed creaked and mattress molded into the shape of your body getting pounded into the soft sheets. It was perfect because when Simon pulled back the mattress sprang back up in his direction and then he slammed you back into it.

The way Simon felt was all consuming. This position allowed him to throw his full body weight into it but only for so long. The last time he went in this position for too long your back had hurt for the next two days.

“Simon.” You whined, feeling your back start to ache.

That was all your husband needed to hear and he was pulling out of you. Shaking your hands off his wrists you took this moment to catch your breath. Simon grabbed your thigh and pulled so you spun around and were now lying on your back. He had done it so quickly it whipped you around. His cock was now resting on your belly showing off how deep he could reach. Tapping it a few times impatiently Simon waited for you to catch up.

“Trying to give me whiplash?” You joked but the words fell off at the end when you felt the blunt tip of your husband’s cock push into you.

Simon was holding your hips firmly and sinking into your tight heat. A new position meant waiting for the green light for the go ahead. A bit frazzled from how good it felt your fingers fumbled to find Simon’s wrists but once you did and gave him a squeeze he set off with his first few trial thrusts and then was pounding away.

“Your tits are fuckin’ gorgeous.” Simon growled, his eyes locked on to the way they bounced with each cruel slam of his hips.

“Simon, I-fuck. Rub my clit, I’m close.” You moaned softly, using all your willpower not to scream from the pleasure.

“Do it yourself.” Simon brushed you off and continued to focus on your tits bouncing and the way you were hugging him so tight.

Without thinking you pushed up with one hand behind your back and now propping you up. With the other it clapped against the back of Simons thick neck and roughly pulled him so he was now leaning down, nose to nose with you. The pure rage in your fiery eyes and the way it stung from how forcefully you grabbed his neck almost made Simon cum on the spot.

“Make me cum.” You ordered, teeth bared and a pissed off expression taking over your once blissed out face.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” Simon sounded so in love in that moment, like he was in some daydream like state.

One hand left your hip while he continued his thrusts and began to play with your pretty little clit. His thumb bumped against it a few time before he truly got the digit over the bundle of nerves. You fell back into the sheets, back arching and pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Faster.” You ordered and Simons hips moved quicker making you squeak in surprise.

“Not-not your hips you idiot! Your thumb!” You sounded so frustrated with him and Simon never understood why that was such a turn on.

Simon didn’t bother slowing down on his brutal thrust but did speed up the rate he was rubbing at your cute little clit. That seemed to do it for you. Tossing your head back your fingers gripped the sheets and you gasped inaudibly. Seeing you cum and then a second later feeling you choke his cock from the base to tip drove Simon wild.

Waves of pleasure rocked your body and Simon worked you through the best of it. That was until now, as you laid on the bed sensitive and worn out and he was still going.

“Simon.” You whined, his brutal thrusts becoming too much in your blissed out state.

“Almost there.” He grunted, eyes focused on your tits until he felt your finger under his chin and tiling his head up to look at you.

“Cum.” You spoke sweetly, giving him that same smile you did back when you married him.

You joked about whiplash earlier but Simon felt he was the one truly experiencing it with your emotional back and forth. Going from being pissed off at him to now sweet as pie. And it worked. Because after a long deep moan Simon was shooting white ropes into your sore cunt. He stayed like that for a moment, deep inside you and catching his breath.

“You’re perfect.” You whispered to your hulking lover who was dwarfing you from above.

“Bed, I’m exhausted.” Pulling out and flopping on to the bed Simon shut his eyes and caught his breath.

“Easiest way to get you to sleep.” You giggled at how making Simon cum was a sure fire way to put him to sleep.

Ignoring the mess you crawled under the sheets and so did Simon. Curling up against his chest he was snoring a few minutes later. You tried to get up and clean yourself before you made the sheets messy. Only, Simon, even in his sleep, would not let go and thus you were stuck to his side. You truly didn’t mind and decided sleep was better, you’d have him change the sheets in the morning.

——————

The feeling of soft sheets and cool air greeted you this morning as your eyes fluttered open. The first thing you saw was hazel. God, how that had become your favorites color. Hazel eyes, crooked teeth, and a faded scar that hooked around the chin of pale skin of a prominent jaw.

Simons eyes were soft, drowsy, and stuck on you. That soft smile of his reminded you how he use to watch you sleep all those years ago when you served together. Some said they were unsettling but nothing settled you like his reassuring gaze. It said ‘I’ve got you.’

With gentleness that was once unknown to a man like Simon he brushed your messy bed head from your beautiful face. He didn’t have to speak a word for you to know he wanted to say he loved you. It was hard for him to say, no matter how many years had passed, but that didn’t matter. You’d hear him whisper in to you in the night when he thought you were asleep or when you were wrangling your kids and he assumed you were too distracted to hear.

“Thanks for last night.” You smiled at Simon in the early morning light. He shook his head, acknowledging your sweet words.

“I love you.” You whispered.

It made your heart stutter to see the way his eyes softened even more and lashes fluttered at your words. The warm lazy smiled soon revealed a toothy grin.

“Back at you, dove.” Simon returned your words with just as much gentleness. And just as easily as he laid here with you this lazy morning he shifted back into his brooding sarcastic self.

“Take a test, last night was the one.” He joked. Before you could even roll your eyes the covers were tossed off of you.

Simon dragged your naked body across the bed and kissed your belly all over. You broke out into a fit of laughter because his stubble was tickling your soft skin. Breaking free you scrambled out of bed and went straight for the bathroom.

“It won’t come out positive that fast.” You chuckled.

“Humor me.” Simon called to you and your response was to shut the bathroom door.

Shrugging you decided to take the test. It would only confirm what you already knew. You grabbed an old discarded shirt of Simon’s from the floor and put it on. Tapping your foot you scrolled on your phone until the timer went off. Barely looking at the plastic test you picked it up and headed for the bin to toss it out. You froze mid stride.

It was positive.

“No fucking wonder I can’t stand him right now.” You chuckled to yourself. This was so relieving.

Pregnancy test’s use to set your teeth on edge, now it brought joy. You wanted to holler and cheer that this had finally happened. But that wasn’t really like you. So with a huge smile you went to go get your pain in the of an ass husband.

“Oi, asshole.” You called to Simon as you exited the bathroom.

You were beaming and looking like you shallowed the sun. He was out of bed and pulling his sweatpants. Holding up the plastic test Simon stared at you with a crooked smile from across the room.

“I know. Makes sense why you’ve hated me the past week.” Simon spoke knowingly and gave you a wink.

“You knew?” You blurted out, arm falling to your side.

“Course. You haven’t been able to stand me being in the same room as you for more than ten minutes; and you know how you get mean when you’re pregnant. You ate half the trey of brownies last night-“

You opened your mouth to deny that but Simon pointed at you and gave you a stern look.

“Don’t deny it.” Then he continued. His words had your mouth clamping shut.

“And the biggest tell. . . Your tits are swollen. It’s why I was able to leave that sample so quick. You pregnant does it for me.” With a shrug Simon moved to go put on a shirt and go about his day before his hellions woke up.

“You ass. Why didn’t you ask me to take a test sooner?” Waltzing over you tossed the test at his head but he quickly ducked and started deeply laughing.

“Would you have listened?” Simon asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“No. Would’ve waited for my missed period.” You muttered. Crossing your arms over your chest you averted your gaze.

“That’s why.” Kissing your cheek Simon wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his chest.

“Congratulations, dove.” Simon spoke softly into the crown of your head.

“I’m so excited.” Melting into his embrace you felt your legs turn to jello as Simon said exactly what you needed to hear.

“Love you. Forever.”

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

@exhaustedpotat0 @glitterypirateduck @ivymarquis @crazymela @what-0-life @boredfairy4 @hihhasotherfixations @stephanswhxre @shanjisan @k4es @luvleywrites @kita03-0 @midwesternwitchery @aleynaleia @suckerforbassist @misshoneypaper @theaonlax @blackstar9005 @tooterbutt @havoc973 @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @freshlemontea @cosmoscoffeee @sae1kie @ohworm-writes @ghostslittlegf @fanficwriterlover @arminarlertssword @faceache111 @azu21 @thirstyb-ches @nini-11-08 @sgtgarricks @kiki-is-hyperfixating @mayflysdie @aliceinwonderland-5678 @blue096 @rip-cod-brainrot @saturnghost93 @somehopeatlast @thepowers-kat-be @tenko-nii @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @thraxpatty @mnsnp @faeriedust17 @livstablers @luvr4miya @phoenixhalliwell @maissalov3u @ellerdod @tizzywoowoo @himboelover @yehsehneeah @r0vena

#simon riley mw2 #cod simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley #simon riley x oc #simon riley smut #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #Simon Riley x dove #cod ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley call of duty

459 notes · View notes

losersiren · 1 year ago

Text

𝒜 𝒥𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒴𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒!𝐿𝑜𝓇𝒹

”𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼'𝓁𝓁 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝓎𝑜𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓇��𝑒𝓈.” A continuation of my oc Ambrose, The lord N: Don't I have a gift for you, Anon! God, I had to rewrite this so many times, BUT I'M DONE!! Eat up! This is a long one! I had to watch so many gun videos (like two), which was unexpected... CW: Fem reader (she/her), acts and talks of violence (not towards the reader), implied murder, threats, guns, fluff (with the reader lol), mocking, power balance (?) Jealousy (or pettiness) Wc: 3.5k

A shotgun sound echoes throughout the forest, followed by yet another dead Grey partridge and light crunches of leaves beneath stomping leather boots.

“That bastard of a man! A prick! Son of a bitch! Son of an adventuress at that!” Ambrose stops in his tracks, reloading his sporting rifle with more gunpowder. Anger consumes his entire being. ”Did you hear what that bloody cocksucker Patrick said to her?” He hissed through his clenched teeth, grabbing the tiny 0.5 mm sphere lead bullet and layering it on top of some fabric. Shoving it inside the rifle barrel, “If what he said changed from the last few hundred times you’ve re-told the incident, then I have no utter clue.” The younger male rolls his eyes, picking up the tenth bird Ambrose has slaughtered this afternoon. He ignores his younger cousin’s sarcastic quip and continues. “ ‘If you wish for a lovely evening, do not be a stranger; send me a letter, and I'll be by your side.’ I should’ve darkened his daylights when those vile words left his devil mouth.” He fixes his gun upright, pushing the first trigger, waiting for another prey to be a victim of his wrath.

“Is she spoken for? Have you outwardly said you intend to court her?” His cousin questions, and Ambrose, in retaliation to his younger relative’s question….blushes like a young girl. Clenching his jaw, he answers, “No,” “Are you mad?!?” “I’ve attempted…but my nervousness has sabotaged me alas.” Astonished, his cousin continues, “Then you have no right to be jealous of her, you fool.”

Bushes start rustling. Ambrose aims and squints instantly, with a pointer finger on the second trigger. A small grey rabbit appears, and immediately, it's killed straight through its skull; a soft smile appears on Ambrose’s face. “For her, I'll be whatever is needed.”

“You are not sane.”

“Don’t be rude, Finch. This is love in its purest form. One day, you’ll understand.” The older male shrugs his shoulders.

“Now,” Ambrose reloads his gun, repeating his past actions, but this time, he looks straight into the other male’s eyes. “What do you know about Patrick Barton?” “I do not-” Ambrose cuts him off. “ Do not lie to me, young Finch…” His voice becomes lower, mocking, his aura more sinister. “You frequent more gentleman clubs than I; lord knows I hate the people and atmosphere of said clubs– Your mother grumbles enough to mine about the subject.” In goes the gunpowder: “You surround yourself with such…’ vast’ personalities from the elites to the ladies of the night.” The grey-eyed man reaches into his waistcoat for a lead bullet. “Yet you tell me– you don’t know about a mere Lord.” He scoffs.

Finch watches his older cousin's actions. Of course, he only asked to spend time with him for information regarding the apple of his eye’s new ‘suitor.’ The young man knows his current situation, the number of Grey partridge carcasses he holds because of Ambrose, and how far deep he’s in the forest, alone with his turbulent cousin. This was a warning, a show of sorts, that he could join these insignificant birds. He tries to swallow the heavy lump stuck in his throat. Ambrose was always the odd man; his smile never reached his eyes, his charm as real as a disloyal man’s ‘ I love you.’ His older cousin wasn’t above putting his hands on his own blood to get what he wanted– Ambrose’s father’s scar is evidence enough.

“He partakes in Hell’s, frequents them more than gentleman’s clubs, a gambler of sorts. Loves it! He brags about the thrills of it and his winnings. Folks whisper that he’s a dishonourable shark. But it's not just hell establishments he attends; If there's someplace to gamble away his earnings, he's there,” Finch sputters his confession.

“And Mills? Does he attend those as well?” “Yes,” The younger lad answers his senior instantly.

Ambrose just hums in return.

Just finishing his task, he aims for his cousin; he wears an inexpressive face, his grey eyes darkened and vacant, with no light, no soul.

“Wait, wait! I told you what you wanted!” Finch pleas. He could run, but in retrospect, how far can he go? Ambrose has a fucking rifle. He’s a good shot, no, an excellent shot. Hell! It’s borderline impossible how he always hits his targets, especially with how hard it is to aim for those things. Finch is panicking; his cousin has already pushed the first trigger. The nervous lad just accepts it; what else could he do? He closes his eyes, expecting his death to come quickly, then he hears a gunshot…

And he's fine…? Another Grey partridge falls from the sky right before him, its dead eye looking at the twenty-year-old.

Ambrose’s gun aims towards the sky. He lowers it. Then he casually approaches the stunned male, who lets out a staggered sigh, relieved he escaped death by a hair. Ambrose looks down at Finch, grabbing his shoulder and leaning in close. “Don’t ever fucking lie to me ever again, especially when the topic concerns my love.” Finch nods rapidly, shaking like a leaf. “Of course, sir, sorry.” Then, the older male releases his shoulders. “Good. Gift those birds to a peasant; perhaps they’ll make dinner with it, oh, and the rabbit, too. Say I have decided to help my community or something along those lines.” He looks at the sky. “I have a woman blessed by aphrodite to court.” His smile is bright, contrasting how he was a mere few seconds ago. He pats his younger cousin’s back and leaves the forest– The lifeless Grey partridge stares back at Finch, and he stares back.

Social calls…How dreadful. Worse is conversing with Lord Barton. He’s a bore, vulgar, and has an underlying inconsiderate, bitter personality. Having your mother as a chaperone does not make the situation any more bearable.

“Have you ever pondered about the future?” he inquires.

What kind of wet rag question is that?

You put on a gentle smile. “Of course I have. Since I was a chit, I would read the local papers with my father-” He cuts you off “Children.” You look at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

The gentleman looks at you like you’re the biggest dunce in the country. “Children, how many children do you wish for? It would be sensible for us to have eight or ten,” “Hah…well…” you lift the tea cup to your mouth.

The man has no decorum…

After that fiasco, you decided to take a stroll downtown, and perhaps you’ll get a book from the local store, some new fabrics from a linen draper, or even some oils. Your pin money given to you by your parents could only cover one item... what a conundrum….

“Do tell me why the viscount’s only daughter is doing without a chaperone?” He leans against the brick wall, arms crossed, his smile beaming.

“Lord Howard, have you dropped your hunting hobby in exchange for stalking?” He chuckles. “Witty as always, but dare I disappoint? I was just strolling about my day and coincidentally saw you– Perhaps fate has decided for us to meet?” He pushes himself off the wall and offers his arm. Was it coincidence or fate…? No, it was none; it was all Ambrose, him asking your fellow lady peers about your whereabouts. Then, wandering near whatever local shops would possibly pique your interest. Memories play in his head, such as when you both were young and would rendezvous at the local forest. You would acquire many hobbies when you were younger– your mother said you would have a higher chance of obtaining a suitor with diverse skills. He would remember them and watch you in amazement when you talked about them.

You made him feel human. You made him feel alive. His father was never a loving one; he gained the son he wanted, and his heir then wanted nothing more to do with him. The only attention Ambrose earned from The Earl was if he needed reprimanding. Every laugh that was too loud, every fork that he unitized improperly, every action, small or big, was scrutinized. His mother was a vacant husk of a woman at home and a social butterfly in the public eye; she watered herself down to being a wife and a mother. She was neither. He detested both of them and hated that damned empty feeling of his soul and heart that matched his vacated house; he felt nothing. His world was as grey as his eyes.

Till he met the colourful Viscount’s daughter– If he got kicked by a horse and lost his memory, he would still somehow remember the day you two met—the memory ingrained in his bones, body, and soul. On the way to your estate, the stately carriage was soundless and suffocating, as if the air was thick. Ambrose remembers how he bore his eyes into his obsidian-polished boots, wishing for the minutes to pass faster.

You were a naive hoyden the first time you introduced yourself; you forgot to say his title and yours. Using his common name and giving him an oh-so-sweet genuine smile, he hadn’t ever seen such an authentic smile for him and only him—not for his parents nor his riches. Just him. Your parents scolded you while apologizing profusely for your ‘disrespect.’ Before his parents could utter something backhanded yet elegant, Ambrose smiled. He didn’t know he could do that. For the first time, the young boy speaks up; he feels this protectiveness over you. But, at the moment, Ambrose couldn't care less about his father's punishment that would soon come; the only thing that mattered was you, and soon he’d found out that it would always be you.

An airy laugh escapes you. “Do you wish for us to be caught in a scandal every time we meet?” He raises a faux, worried face and voice. “Me?!? As a future Earl, I am fulfilling my gentlemanly duties by escorting a fine young lady and keeping her from potential dangers. What’s so scandalous about that?” You take his arm. “You’re far from sane, My Lord.”

“For you, My lady? I hope so,” He says proudly with his chest out.

A comfortable silence lulls you as you look at how the sun hits the trees, people, and him. The sun's rays lighten his dark brown hair, blessing it with an orange hue and grey eyes, becoming Iridescent, more akin to a pearl.

“The latest on dit says Lord Barton has called for your company?” He inquires

Your face grimaces at just the sound of his name. As much as you loathe the man, he is a viable suitor with good money and an excellent reputation, but a suitable suitor does not equate to a good man. “He’s…an interesting individual…” His jaw clenches. You’re not being open as he wants; you’re holding back…he hates that you might be hiding something. Not you per se but that damned rake Patrick. “He’s a rake,” he spits out, and you gaze at him. He’s uncharacteristically serious.

You smile. “He is,” Ambrose turns his head to you, returning your smile.

“Quite the feat to dissect the woman you are trying to woo as well.” The gentleman’s eyebrows furrow. “He did not,” you huff. “Oh, he did!” Ambrose stops in his tracks and mummers your name softly. “If you would only permit it, Allow me to court you,” You raise an eyebrow at the sudden question, “Pardon?” He continues, “That bastard doesn’t deserve you.” “And you do?” he chuckles. “No, but I’ll do everything you ask me to, then maybe one day I'll deserve you; you wish for dresses? I'll buy you the tailor and store. Money is far from an issue. Heavens, ask for the world, and I'll give you it with the stars and beyond as accessories.” He turns his whole body to you, his hands finding yours, his leather gloves causing a barrier between your soft ones.

He hates that

“Ambrose…”

“Please…only if you’ll allow me.” The love-sick man entreated “But what about the other more suitable ladies? I’ve heard-” “I do not care for them,” He interrupts you. “Every second I was apart, I only longed for you. The only reason I kept my studies up was to be the perfect suitor equal to you.” He caresses your knuckles. The butterflies in your stomach flutter more after each word spills out of his mouth. Your relationship with Ambrose was vague at most. You couldn’t put your finger on it; every time you were in his presence, you had this comfort no one else could recreate. You were hesitant to put a label onto it, and maybe you feel this way because he was the only man you truly felt you could be yourself with.

“If you wish to court me, you must’ve thought to ask my father for permission rather than myself.”

“I could’ve,” He pauses, “But I'd rather ask you first; I need your permission. I am not marrying your father, am I? I need to hear you wish for me as much as I yearn for you,”

You amuse the thought. Ambrose is a prick at times, his teasing relentless, but despite that, he’s charming, sincere, soothing, and protective. He’s a good man, indeed.

“I’ll bite, My lord.” “Please do.” He smirked, masking his nervousness.

You slap his hand lightly, reprimanding him, “Let me continue, you brute…I’ll allow you to court me.” “Truly?” he exclaims, Astonished. “Truly,” You nod meekly. In a haste, he kisses your bare hands, each knuckle, each finger. “I’ve been blessed indeed,” his voice is as blissful as a child receiving a sugary dessert. You yank your hands away from him, flushed from his actions. “You dog, we are in the public,” you scold him. “I shall make it up to you in our next outing; I vow,” You swear you could see a wagging tale behind him. You sigh.

The day went on, and by sundown, Ambrose had hired a post-chaise for the both of you despite your protests of you living just around the corner. He claimed he had ‘Earl-like duties to attend to’ and you were just on the route back either way. As a gentleman should, he dropped you off promptly; as he left in the carriage, away from your estate, you softly ran your fingers over your knuckles. A smile adorns your face. “What an oaf,” you whisper to yourself. A fond grin decorates Ambrose’s face, a few giggles even, but as euphoric this day was, he did have business to attend to. A certain lord has decided to make his lacklustre presence known, and Ambrose couldn’t celebrate until he exterminated said pest.

Gentleman’s clubs were boisterous, loud, and untrustworthy. The men here are just as vile as the feed that is fed to pigs. The soon-to-be-Earl disliked them and only engaged in them because he needed to build his reputation. He may be judgemental, but he isn’t an idiot. Others may regard him as a friend, but for him, he could care less for it. The males around him start to recognize Ambrose, yelling pleasantries, which he would return and shut down politely or…as politely as he could in his eyes. A booming voice reverberates against the wall of the finely furnished building, only belonging to the one and only Patrick Barton. Unconsciously, a scowl appears on the young man’s face. Ambrose knew more than he led on about Patrick; he heard whispers of Barton’s hobby in the mills, rigging the boxing matches that were bid on by elites and peasants alike. Word says he would pay one of the desperate participants to lose on purpose– word is bound to escape one day or another. It is not a sustainable income source. Yet another reason Lord Barton is not fit for you.

Ambrose walks towards the table where the bastard sits, narrowing his eyes.

Lord Barton and his goons recognize the lord approaching them. Barton speaks first: “Lord Howard! Is it a blue moon? What on earth might’ve convinced you to come out of that dreadful estate?” He laughs, arranging some snuff onto the mahogany to snort. “Perhaps it’s because you plan on courting his woman.” a nameless male inquires. “No, could it be? I don’t blame you, Ambrose; she is a fine woman, isn’t she? She is just in need of training,” another male said, joining in. “So does every woman in this country.” Another chuckle escapes the vulgar lord.

Ambrose’s leather gloves wrinkle. His fist clenched to prevent him from beating the man in front of him into a pummel. He has a plan, the grey-eyed man repeats in his head. Then he forces a smile on his face. “On the contrary, I've decided to pick up a new gambling hobby; why not ask the man of the hour himself for advice? Or even a game or two.” Ambrose signals a servant and orders drinks for the table. The man in question gets up, slapping Ambrose on his back. “Atta boy, never let a woman come between men; let bygones be bygones, what a joyance plan! Come, come.” The night continues, and Patrick is as drunk as the rest of the men in the club; Ambrose, the gentleman he is, offers him to join his carriage in his words. 'Let’s start this newfound friendship off with a bang.' Cold water hits the once-drunken lord, and he awakens, gasping for air on the cold textured ground. ‘Where am I?’ he thinks, discombobulated, looking around and grasping his situation. The dark forest surrounds him, almost engulfing him; the trees blow along with the wind, and the creatures of the night rustle in the background. A voice comes from the shadows, luring him away from his racing thoughts, “Gunpowder is such a messy substance, but did you know a man invented a gun powered by air? What a time to be alive! How revolutionary!” Patrick looks at the man, most of his body consumed by the darkness of nightfall, the moon only making his grey eyes visible.

“Ambrose, what the utter fuck-” “Don’t interrupt.” He says sternly. “As I was saying, a gun powered by air,” He continues. “A watchmaker of all things invented it; how preposterous! He eliminated gunpowder entirely and named this new gun Windbüchse or, I know you only know English, so pardon me, I'll translate, wind gun.”

“It’s far better than my hunting rifle; the tedious thing is quite a hassle to reload. But this wind gun can load much faster, 20 rounds a minute! Compared to the other, it is much quieter. It's a shame its range is far smaller.” The man standing pouts. “But all is well. The Austrian army decided to order thousands of supplies, and it’s fortunate I even got my hands on one.” Patrick squints, trying to distinguish Ambrose, and it finally sets in. In a forest he doesn’t know of, with a man who has a gun in his hand in the dead of night. Not just any man but a Lord known for his physical fitness and hunting expertise since he was a just a lad.

Fuck

“If this is about your lady, Ambrose, you can have her! There’s no need to do this!” Patrick tries to reason with the love-sick lord, yet it's no use. The other man scoffs, “I’ve always detested men like you, greedy, hypocritical. Ready to jump boat when things get too tough for your liking– where is your backbone? Where is your spine? Your pride?” Ambrose circles the pain-filled man on the ground. “You never deserved to even be in her presence; you aren’t even entitled to breathe the same air as her,” He then spontaneously kicks Patrick's ribs, causing him to curl up on a ball, yelping. Ambrose looks down at the pathetic man. “But, I am a fair man, unlike you, so I'll give you a chance to run while I read you the note I have written in your writing announcing your hasty departure after news of your rigging in the mills comes to light, your writing was not hard to duplicate as well; who knew mother’s penmanship lessons would come in handy,” He chuckles.

“Now run, monkey, while you still can.” He sets the trigger and then turns the spindle of his gun clockwise till a clicking sound can be heard, indicating he doesn’t need to turn it anymore. Ambrose opens the barrel, puts in an 8.5 mm bullet, and then shuts it.

“I’m sure we can talk this out reasonably, money! I have money! Have it all; buy your woman something nice-” Patrick feels his thigh get warmer at first rather than the pulsing pain of a bullet shooting through his thigh that would soon follow shortly after. He screams.“To think you have the naivety to think I couldn’t fund my lover for generations on end,”

Ambrose rolls his eyes. “Scream louder; perhaps you’ll awaken a bear to save you,” yet again, he starts reloading his wind gun, faster at that, “I am not one to repeat himself nor give mercy. Run, rabbit.”

With adrenaline coursing through his body, Patrick runs…or well, attempts to.

Ambrose reaches into his waistcoat for the forged letter, clearing his voice to read it while his other hand holds his gun. Though his attention should be on the task at hand, he is utterly distracted by possible outing plans you would adore. Shall he go canoeing with you? Or a picnic? A carriage ride underneath the newly blooming cherry blossoms? Why not all three?

Oh. how he longs to see you again.

Notes: I'm gonna be so honest, romance is the hardest thing to write for me. It's probably noticeable, forgive me (⇀‸↼‶) I had to do some research for this one, but it was a fun process learning more about Regency lingo and gun history. For my next full fic. I was thinking of a yandere! Cannibalistic 50's housewife, but idk….hehe…if you have any ideas send them to my inbox!! I'd like to say again THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT!!! Reading all your kind words makes my little shy heart soar (o^ ^o) see you soon, my little guppies!!

2K notes · View notes

redrage71890 · 5 days ago

Text

KPop Demon Hunters Fic Idea

Been looking forward to this movie since the trailer!

BOY I WASN’T DISAPPOINTED!

As soon as I finished the movie, I went through withdrawal symptoms. I love this movie so much I’m praying for the fics and fanart to satisfy my hyperfixation.

SO I HAVE A FIC IDEA! HEAR ME OUT!

(P.s: my personal taste in fics tend to be more oc/mc based with sometimes various characters)

So there’s always been three hunters to create the honmoon and it has continued that for generations. But in recent times, the hunters discover a fourth hunter that has existed as long as them. Destroying the demons in their own way.

The Sunlight Sisters track down the other hunter (being MC’s mother) to get more information about her. By the end she joins the group but only in producing and backing vocals, because of the notion of bad luck with the number 4.

In the future, MC is being trained to be a singer and producer along with her hunter skills.

Though MC has a bit of a problem.

✨C R I P P L I N G A N X I E T Y✨

VERY afraid to joining the group as much as she wants to internally. So she’s kept as a mysterious backing vocals in all of Huntrix’s songs. Even performing backstage live and being part of their managing team with Bobby.

I might actually write this now

Edit: I got the prologue up now!

#kpop demon hunters #Saja boys #Huntrix #Kdh #Rumi Kpdh #Mira Kpdh #Zoe Kpdh #Kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys #Kpdh #Romance #jinu kpdh #abby kpdh #romance kpdh #mystery kpdh #baby saja

161 notes · View notes

daeniradraconis · 2 months ago

Text

Small Moments - L. Hughes /Age Is Just a Number… Right? - Part 3. /

Hi lovelies, So this is it—the final part of Luke’s story! 🥹 To fully enjoy it, make sure you’ve read Part 1 and Part 2 first.

Just a quick note: I know that in Jack’s and Quinn’s stories, I named Luke’s girlfriend Thea, but in this one, I didn’t use any names. So if you’re not a fan of OC fics, you’re totally safe here! These are more like little snapshots from Luke and the reader's story—a glimpse into their everyday life and quiet moments together.

I hope you enjoy this one as much as I loved writing it. 💛

For more fun: masterlist Those red days

“I love you more than I hate everything else.”

Moving in together was supposed to be fun. A new adventure. A fresh start. A romantic milestone. But right now? You wanted to punt Luke out of your romantic milestone.

You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a mountain of blankets, feeling like absolute garbage. Your cramps were killing you, you were bloated, and worst of all—Luke was breathing. Loudly. Or maybe just… normally. But normal breathing was annoying right now.

You turned your head, glaring at him like he was your mortal enemy. “Can you just not breathe?”

Luke, sprawled out on the other end of the couch, paused mid-scroll on his phone. “Uh… what?”

“Stop breathing,” you repeated, voice wobbling. “It’s annoying.”

He blinked. “You want me to just… die?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You kinda did.”

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that,” you grumbled, sniffling dramatically.

Luke, being Luke, took a deep breath and then dramatically held it, staring at you like he was nobly sacrificing himself for the greater good.

For a few seconds, it was nice. Quiet. Peaceful.

But then your stupid emotions betrayed you.

Oh God. What if he actually stopped breathing? What if he suffocated? What if he just collapsed right there, and you had to explain to his brothers that you literally annoyed him to death? What if you had to live with that guilt forever?

Your eyes welled up. “Oh no.”

Luke, still holding his breath, raised an eyebrow.

Tears streamed down your face. “BREATHE, LUKE! PLEASE!”

Startled, he exhaled so fast he coughed. “Jesus, babe! What is happening?”

You launched yourself at him, burying your face in his chest. “I told you to stop breathing, but then I thought about you actually dying and now I feel like the worst person ever because I love you and I don’t want you to die and my hormones are trying to ruin my life—”

Luke was silent for a second. Then, he wheezed. “You—” He coughed, trying not to laugh. “You just tried to cancel my breathing privileges and then got sad about it?”

You sniffled. “Yes.”

He exhaled, rubbing your back. “Okay. That tracks.”

You let out a miserable little whimper. “I hate my uterus.”

Luke nodded solemnly. “Understandable.” Then, after a beat— “You know… there is one way to avoid this every month.”

You pulled back slightly, squinting at him. “What?”

His lips twitched. “You could just get pregnant.”

You froze. Oh. That was not where you thought he was going with that.

Your first instinct was to roll your eyes and smack him, but then—your hormones betrayed you again. Because suddenly, instead of slapping him, your brain went, Hmm. Pregnant. Baby. Little Hughes baby. Luke as a dad. You wouldn’t have a period. Interesting.

You stared at him, horrified.

Luke grinned. “Oh my God. You’re thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not!” you shrieked, shaking your head violently.

“You are!” he laughed. “You actually considered it for a second!”

“I hate my hormones,” you groaned, collapsing back against him. “They’re making me like the idea of things I should not be liking right now.”

He kissed the top of your head, still smirking. “I mean, no rush. But if you ever really wanna get rid of your period…”

You groaned again. “I’m moving out.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “No, you’re not.”

You sighed. “No, I’m not.” …But still. Maybe one day. Our Tradition “Maybe that’s what love is. Having someone who makes all the mundane moments feel like small traditions worth keeping.”

The kitchen is bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, the air thick with the sweet scent of pancakes sizzling on the griddle. The soft plop of the batter hitting the pan is almost rhythmic, and you find yourself humming along as you flip the pancakes, making sure they’re just the right shade of golden brown.

Today is special—it’s Luke’s birthday, the first one you’re celebrating together. You want everything to be perfect. The pancakes are stacked high, their golden layers dotted with fresh, ripe strawberries and a light dusting of powdered sugar.

“Smells amazing in here,” Luke’s sleepy voice drifts from the doorway, and you look up to find him standing there, blinking slowly, his hair a mess of wild curls sticking out in every direction. His face is adorably puffy from sleep, his eyes still heavy with that dreamy haze. He looks like he’s just crawled out of a cloud.

You smile at the sight of him, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Morning, sleepyhead,” you tease, setting the pancakes down on a plate.

Luke shuffles over to you, dragging his feet like he’s still half-asleep, his arms already reaching for you. You giggle as he wraps himself around you from behind, burying his face in your neck. His curls tickle your skin as he presses his puffy cheek against your shoulder, his voice muffled.

“I look like a mess,” he mumbles, his words thick with sleep. “My curls are everywhere, and my face is puffy. I can’t even… I can’t believe you’re making me get out of bed looking like this.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his wild curls, making them even messier in the process. “You’re adorable. No matter what.” You turn around in his arms, meeting his sleepy eyes, still glowing with that soft affection. He’s clinging to you like he can’t quite let go of the warmth of the bed. His arms tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’m just too tired,” he groans, his voice dragging. “Can’t I just stay here with you for a little longer? I don’t want to leave.”

You laugh softly, kissing the tip of his nose, knowing how hard it is for him to fully wake up. “We have pancakes waiting,” you tease, trying to coax him into action.

He groans again, but the grin on his face tells you he’s already starting to wake up. “Mmm, pancakes. I can get up for pancakes,” he agrees, reluctantly loosening his grip but only just enough to let you move toward the counter.

You grab a mug of coffee from the counter and pass it to him, watching as he takes a sip with a sleepy smile. His eyes never leave you as you set the pancakes on the table, a plate full of sweet simplicity. You sit down across from him, the soft morning light warming the space between you.

He doesn’t let you sit alone for long. After a moment, he’s pulling his chair closer, practically on top of yours, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. His curls brush against your cheek, and you feel the weight of his sleepy body leaning into yours.

You smile, feeling your heart swell. "Happy birthday, Lukey," you say softly, taking his hand in yours.

Luke smiles lazily, his eyes half-lidded, his puffy face breaking into a contented grin. "Thank you," he murmurs, squeezing your hand. "This is the best start to my birthday. Pancakes, coffee, and you." He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, his warmth enveloping you. “I could get used to this.”

You chuckle softly, running a hand through his curls again, the mess of them so endearing. “This is our tradition now,” you tell him, your voice full of meaning. “Every birthday, pancakes and coffee. Just us.”

He pulls back slightly, looking at you with soft, adoring eyes. “I love that,” he says quietly. Then, with a teasing grin, he adds, “But next time, can we maybe skip the getting out of bed early in the morning part? I kind of like being wrapped around you for a little longer.”

You smile, leaning into his embrace as you both dig into the pancakes, the quiet, simple joy of the moment settling around you. For all the big milestones and celebrations that lie ahead, this feels like the kind of tradition that will stick—the quiet mornings, the sleepy smiles, and the deep, unspoken understanding that you're building something beautiful together.

When You Need It Most

“When I am with you, I feel at home. And that’s all I need, really.”

The moment you step through the door, you already know—it’s one of those days. The weight of your job, the expectations, the endless frustration—it all clings to you like a second skin, suffocating, inescapable. You drop your bag on the floor with a little too much force, your keys rattling against the table as you toss them down.

Luke and Jack are sprawled out on the couch, watching something on TV, their laughter floating through the air, but it feels distant, like static noise.

Jack picks up on your mental state the moment he lays eyes on you. So he does what he does best—flashes you a grin and tries to break the tension.

“Hey, you look like you could use a drink.” His voice is teasing, playful—the kind of humor that usually earns at least a smirk from you.

Nothing. You just stare at him blankly.

Luke notices immediately. His smile fades, his eyes scanning your face. “Babe?” His voice is soft, concerned.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and head straight for the bedroom, closing the door behind you a little harder than necessary. The moment you’re alone, it all comes crashing down. The frustration, the exhaustion, the helplessness—it swallows you whole.

Tears burn behind your eyes, and you sink onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. A sharp, uneven breath escapes you, and before you know it, you’re breaking down completely.

You don’t hear the door open, don’t realize Luke is there until you feel the mattress dip beside you. His hand finds your back instantly, warm and grounding, rubbing slow, soothing circles.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice filled with worry. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s— It’s my job. My boss wants me back in the office. Full-time.” The words come out choked, filled with frustration. “That’s so much travel, Luke. It’s going to cost me a fortune just to get there. And I don’t—” Your voice wavers. “I don’t even like it. I don’t even know why I’m still doing it.”

Luke is quiet, letting you get it all out. His hand never stops moving, grounding you.

“I just… I feel useless,” you admit in a whisper. “Like I’m stuck. And I don’t know what to do, and—” You take a shaky breath. “I don’t want to move closer to the office, because then I’d have to move out. And I don’t want that either.” Your voice breaks at the last part.

Luke doesn’t hesitate. “Then quit.”

Your head snaps up, eyes red-rimmed as you blink at him. “What?”

“Quit,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.

You let out a humorless laugh, wiping at your eyes. “Luke, that’s insane.”

“No, what’s insane is watching you come home every day looking like this.” His voice is firm but gentle, his eyes locked onto yours. “You’re miserable. You don’t love that job anymore. Why are you forcing yourself to stay?”

“Because I have to.”

“Why?” He leans in, brows furrowed. “Who said you have to?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Luke exhales, shaking his head. “Babe, when we agreed to be together, I told you—I want to prove to you that I can be a man. And in my book, that means being there for you. Protecting you. Providing for you.” His voice is steady, full of conviction. “I can do that. For you.”

You swallow, your heart tightening at his words.

“I’m not saying you have to sit at home and just do the housework,” he continues. “Unless you want to. If being a homemaker is what makes you happy, then that’s a job too. You already take care of everything around here. You make this place a home. I see that. I respect that.” He cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing over your skin. “And I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped in a job that’s making you miserable just because you think you have to.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but this time, they’re different. Lighter.

Luke tilts his head, his voice softening. “Just… take a break. A few months. Give yourself time to figure out what you want. Not what your boss wants, not what’s expected—what you want.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “And whatever that is, I’ve got you. No matter what.”

You feel the tension start to ease, but then a familiar knot tightens in your stomach. You pull back slightly, looking up at him with a mix of fear and guilt. “But I don’t know if I can do that, Luke. I don’t know if I can just... not work. People already think I’m with you for your money. They think I’m trying to lock you down because I’m older than you, and—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “Even your mom thought I was only here because of what you have. I can’t... I can’t just stop working, or they’ll be right.”

Luke’s face softens, but his gaze hardens in that way that tells you he’s about to get serious. He takes your hands gently in his. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” His voice is firm but filled with warmth. “First of all, anyone who says you’re with me for my money doesn’t know you. I know you. You’re not the type to care about that.”

You try to speak, but he holds up a hand, stopping you. “And second, let’s be real—do you even let me pay for anything? I took you to Starbucks the other day, and you practically threw the change at me.”

A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “That’s because I can get my own coffee.”

“I know, but you know what? I like spoiling you. And that’s not about me trying to buy your love—it’s because I appreciate everything you do.” He squeezes your hands gently. “And I know that you take care of this—you take care of us.”

Your chest tightens with emotion, and you let out a shaky breath. “But I don’t want you to think I’m just using you. That I’m not contributing.”

Luke tilts his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “Babe, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re not just keeping this place together—you’re running this house. And that’s a full-time job in itself. It’s exhausting, but you do it every damn day.” He pauses, his eyes softening with affection as he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “And you don’t let me or Jack help nearly enough.” He shakes his head with a smile. “But you know what? You make this house feel like home. Before you, it was just a place to sleep, but now…” He exhales softly, looking around as if taking it all in. “Now, after a game, a roadie, or a practice, I walk in and it’s like I can finally breathe. It feels like a safe space, like peace. And that’s all you, baby.”

His voice softens even more, the depth of his love clear in every word. “Your candles, glowing every night… that scent, it’s like a wave of calm. It’s like a hug for my soul after a crazy day. And your lemon sorbet? God, it’s like you put all your care and love into every bite. After we lose, or just have a bad day, it’s like you’re reminding me that there’s still sweetness, still warmth, no matter what. You fill this house with so much love, and it makes my heart so damn full every time.”

He lets out a fond laugh. “And don’t even get me started on those ridiculous fluffy pillows you insist on buying. They’re the softest things I’ve ever laid on, and they’ve made my sleep so much better. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I’d still be running on fumes if it wasn’t for them.” He grins, his voice turning playful, but there’s a tenderness there that cuts through the teasing. “But seriously, babe… you’ve turned this place into more than just walls and furniture. You’ve made it us. You’ve made me, and even Jack, better—happier. You’ve put so much of yourself into this home, and it’s more than just a place to live. It’s where we feel loved, where we feel cared for. Where we feel safe.”

Your throat tightens, and he rubs his thumb across your hand, soothing you. “I don’t know if you realize this, but you’re already doing more than most people could even handle. You are so much more than any paycheck or job title. You’ve already been providing, in ways that matter. And if you need a break, then take one. I’ve got you.”

Your heart swells at his words, but you’re still reluctant. “But, Luke... I don’t want you to think I’m just... leeching off of you.”

He pulls you in close, his voice soft but full of conviction. “It’s not leeching. It’s a partnership. I want to be here for you. I want to provide for you. That’s what being a man means to me—being there for the people I love, supporting them in whatever way I can.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “And I don’t want you to feel guilty about that. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You swallow hard, tears spilling over again, but this time they’re tears of relief. You’re finally starting to believe him.

“I know I’m young,” he continues, his voice steady, “but I’ve been around long enough to know what matters. And you? You matter. More than anything.”

You feel the tightness in your chest begin to melt away. “But... I still don’t want people to think—”

He cuts you off with a playful smile. “I don’t care what people think. Let them talk. I’m the one who gets to wake up next to you every day—I know who you are, and that’s all that matters.” Then he grins. “Besides, my mom loves you now. You two get wine-drunk together every other Sunday.”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “Excuse you! We’re enrolled in a very respectable online wine tasting course.”

He lifts a brow, smirking. “Babe… pretty sure wine tasting courses don't involve giggling over cheese boards and impulse-buying matching slippers.”

You narrow your eyes. “That was one time. And the slippers were on sale.”

He laughs, eyes soft as he leans in closer. “All I’m saying is—she loves you. You’re in. Fully, completely. Everyone in my family who actually knows you? They adore you.” He pauses, and looks deeply in your eye. “And the people who don’t? Their opinions don’t matter. Not to me. Not to us.”

Luke grins at you, his arms wrapping around you again, pulling you in tight.

“You’re not using me,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’re with me. And I love you for who you are. All of you. I want you to feel secure, to feel safe, not just financially, but emotionally, mentally—every way. And if that means you take a break from work, then take one. I’ve got you. Always.”

You feel his love, his certainty, and for the first time, you feel like you don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to justify your worth with a paycheck.

“Okay,” you whisper, finally allowing yourself to let go of that fear. “Okay.”

Luke smiles, his lips brushing over your forehead. “Yeah?”

You nod, your heart lighter than it’s been in a long time. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause before he adds, his voice playful again. “Now, let’s go out there and tell Jack he completely failed at making you laugh. Because that’s gonna break his heart.”

A watery laugh bubbles out of you, and Luke grins, brushing a soft kiss against the top of your head.

“There she is,” he murmurs, a tender smile on his face. “My sweet girl.”

Tides of Us

"They were two souls who had never been apart, just waiting for the world to catch up."

The air still held the warmth of the day, soft and easy, with the sun just starting to dip behind the trees. The lake was calm, stretching out in ripples that caught the last of the golden light. Shadows from the tall pines spilled across the dock, where the boards were sun-bleached and uneven from years of use.

The wood creaked softly beneath you as you moved. Luke’s arms were wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on the top of your head. You swayed together in a slow, absent rhythm, barefoot and quiet.

Luke was tall and warm and damp from the lake, wearing an oversized hoodie that hung off his frame and clung a little to his skin. His curls, still wet, peeked out from under the hood. You wore a light blue sundress, the bottom of it soaked and clinging to your legs. Your hair was loose, wavy from the water, still drying in the evening air.

There wasn’t much sound—just the lake, the breeze, and the creak of wood beneath you. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

From the terrace of the lake house above, where two weather-worn Adirondack chairs sat angled toward the water, Quinn clicked another photo.

“You’re seriously going full National Geographic right now,” Jack said, chewing around a mouthful of peach. “Creepiest brother behavior I’ve witnessed, and I’ve seen you cry during Finding Nemo.”

Quinn didn’t lower the camera. “Bold talk from the guy who wouldn’t give up the Jersey apartment for Luke and Y/N because he ‘didn’t want to be emotionally abandoned.’”

Jack shrugged and dropped the peach pit into his cup. “Yeah, I’m needy and mildly unhinged. I own that. That’s why I get to judge everyone else.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. Jack had always been dramatic, clingy, and unapologetically himself—and by now, nothing surprised Quinn anymore. Still, he set the camera down and leaned back in his chair.

They sat side by side in peaceful silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Below, Luke suddenly tightened his grip and spun you around, lifting your feet clean off the dock with a squeal. You laughed—loud and bright—head tipping back as the world blurred around you. Luke giggled too, breathless and boyish, like he couldn’t help it.

When he finally set you down, you reached up on instinct, fingers threading through his damp curls just to mess them up. He swatted at your hand, but you were already darting away with a grin.

“Oh no you don’t,” he called, barefoot steps soft against the dock as he chased after you. You didn’t get far—you never really tried to.

“They’re so in love,” Quinn said simply.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

He leaned back in the chair, squinting at the dock like he was watching a memory instead of a moment.

“You remember how it started?” Jack asked, a laugh already curling at the edges of his mouth.

Quinn chuckled. “She tried to sneak out of the apartment.”

“She was sneaking out,” Jack said, grinning. “He was still asleep. I found her in the hallway looking like she’d just realized she’d committed a federal crime.”

“She didn’t know who you guys were, right?”

“Nope. She told me I had ‘the vibe of a guy who points at maps for a living.’ Thought I was the local weatherman.”

Quinn smirked. “Yeah... she told me later she only said that because she could tell, you had a huge ego and didn’t want to feed it. Apparently, she thought you looked more like the kind of guy who could make some good money as a stripper.”

Jack blinked, then broke into a loud laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. She figured you out in under a minute.”

Jack leaned back with a proud grin. “What can I say? I make a strong first impression.”

“But she didn’t even know Luke played hockey professionally,” Quinn added, grabbing his beer and taking a long sip.

“Yeah. Thought it was just some weekend hobby or something. Y/N, said he didn’t seem like a pro athlete—apparently Lukey was too cute and dorky on their first date.”

Quinn shaked his head, a little bit more seriously. “I didn’t trust her at first. I thought she was lying.”

“None of you did,” Jack said, smirking. “I was the only one. Best brother, obviously.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Y/N is six years older, Jack. And their first date… was... not exactly slow-burn. It was suspicious.”

“Because you didn’t see them from the start,” Jack said, his voice shifting, a little quieter now. “They were like yin and yang, man. Like they’d just met, but they already fit. It was freaky—like, glowing-and-melting-into-each-other level chemistry. But they barely knew each other. I knew right then—this was it for Lukey.”

He shrugged and leaned back, arms folded behind his head, letting the warm breeze play through his hair.

Quinn’s face softened. “Yeah. I realized it too now. She knows everything about him. The way he hums when he brushes his teeth. That he re-watches Harry Potter movies when he’s sick. That he won’t eat banana desserts, but will crush an entire bunch of bananas like a feral raccoon.”

Jack snorted.

“And it goes both ways,” Quinn continued. “It’s kind of disturbing how well they know each other after such a short time. It’s like they skipped the awkward phase entirely.”

Down on the dock, Luke kissed your forehead gently, then spun you again, slower this time. The fireflies had come out—little gold sparks blinking at the edge of the grass as the sky shifted into indigo.

“And she just... fits,” Jack said, his tone softening. “She tolerates my sassy ass, and she handles your moody one. It’s like she was meant to be here with us. And you know, she makes sure I’m included. She cooks for us, always pulls me into whatever plans that two are planning. She’s not just here for Luke. She’s here for me too.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. His brother wasn’t exactly known for sharing his feelings. This caught him a little bit off guard.

Jack let out a breath, still watching you and Luke on the dock. “Before Y/N, it was just me and Luke. We had our thing, you know? Living in the big city, playing on the same team, just relying on each other. We did everything together—hell, it was just us against the world. We built this bond, and I didn’t want it to change.”

Quinn nodded, understanding. Since moving to Vancouver, he’d seen how much closer Jack and Luke had grown. All three of them were tight, but those two had something different—a bond built on living and working side by side. Quinn didn’t resent it. He was glad they had each other, because playing in the NHL was tough. He knew how tough it was to move to a new city, far from home, and still be expected to thrive in such a competitive environment. It could get lonely fast. But Jack and Luke weren’t alone. They had each other. And that made it a little easier.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face, his voice a little quieter now. “I hated the thought of being the third wheel. I was afraid that with her around, I’d get left behind. I know, it sounds dumb now, but... I didn’t want to lose what we had. But she didn’t take anything away. If anything, she made everything feel more... whole. She made our place feel like home. Not just for Luke, but for me, too.”

Jack glanced at Quinn, a little guarded now, like he realized he might’ve said too much. "But don’t tell her I said any of this. We’ve already got enough eucalyptus candles to start our own spa, and I seriously can’t handle another one."

Quinn smirked but didn’t say anything. Jack paused, and for a second, Quinn caught something rare in his brother’s eyes—a flicker of emotion he rarely let slip. Jack cleared his throat quickly, like he could shake it off.

He wasn’t the emotional one. But seeing Luke like that—so happy, so in love—it hit different.

Click.

Jack turned, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? What now?”

Quinn lowered the camera, still grinning. “You had feelings. I figured I should document the event. Might be another decade before it happens.”

“Asshole...” Jack muttered, rolling his eyes. But then he smiled—soft, real. “You know, you were right last Christmas.”

Quinn looked confused. “About what?”

“That Mom’s always right,” Jack said, voice dropping just above a whisper. “Luke was always gonna be the first to get married.”

Quinn let out a quiet laugh, eyes drifting back toward the dock. “That woman’s got witchy powers, I swear. She just knew.”

The last of the sunlight spilled gold across the lake, soft and warm, like it didn’t want to let go. Down on the dock, Luke looked up, catching their gaze. He smiled—proud, in love, a little shy—and in that moment, both Jack and Quinn saw it clearly.That look said everything. It was love. It was growth. It was their little brother—no longer just a boy, but a man.

Wine and Wisdom

“I think that’s what love is. You accept them, flaws and all, because you know they’re worth it.”

It was supposed to be your week.

One last stretch of time before Luke left for the Olympics, before he disappeared into a whirlwind of press, team dinners, strategy meetings, and a level of focus that turned him into a brick wall in skates.

But instead of romantic goodbye dinners or soft movie nights, you were getting Sass Monster Hughes. Olympic Luke had officially entered the building—and he was stomping around like a storm cloud in a Team USA hoodie.

Which is exactly why you were now curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, FaceTiming with a woman who once made it very clear she didn’t like you.

Ellen Hughes answered on the second ring. She picked up with a slow sip of wine and a perfectly timed raised eyebrow.

“He’s shut down, huh?”

You nodded, sinking deeper into the couch with your own glass. “He’s in full Olympic lockdown. I tried asking if he wanted to do anything tonight—movie, walk, food, literally anything—and he looked at me like I kicked a puppy.”

Ellen hummed knowingly. “Yep. That’s the zone. Doesn’t matter how many times they go through it, the first few days before they leave for a big tournament are always the worst. It’s like their brain shuts every door except the one labeled 'win'.

You rubbed your temple. “It just sucks. I know he loves me. I know he’s stressed. But it’s like I’m not even in the room half the time.”

Ellen gave you a look that wasn’t pity—it was understanding.

“You’re not doing anything wrong. He’s just in it.” She paused, thinking. “This is the part of being with a hockey player no one tells you about. The way they disappear into their own heads before something big.”

You nodded, letting that settle.

“So what do I do?” you asked, voice softer now. “I don’t want to push. But I also don’t want to spend our last night together staring at the wall.”

Ellen’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She took another sip, then set her glass down.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You don’t chase him. You anchor him.”

You blinked. “Anchor?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask for a big romantic night or some emotional goodbye. That’ll make him feel guilty, and guilt makes him shut down more.”

She leaned in, a little conspiratorial now.

“What he needs is presence. Calm. Something solid that reminds him who he is outside the rink. You.”

Your throat tightened.

“So... just be normal?”

“Be you,” she said. “Put on a stupid show you both love. Order takeout from that place he always tries to pretend he doesn’t like. Sit on the couch like nothing's different. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

She paused, then added, with a smirk: “And when he does, don’t make it a big deal. Just let him lean in. Let him come back quietly.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to her. Something about the way she said it—gentle but steady—clicked.

It was so funny, really. Sitting here with Ellen, drinking wine, trading advice about how to love her baby boy through his weird little hockey shutdown. If someone had told you this would be your Tuesday night a year ago, you’d have laughed in their face.

But now, you couldn’t imagine not calling her.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

She waved it off, but her eyes were soft.

“You’ve got him—even when he gets like this. Just trust yourself. Trust the quiet. And if all things fails, bake him something sweet. If there’s one thing those boys can’t resist, it’s sugar.” She paused, then added with a grin, “And make sure it’s chocolate. Luke would even trade me for a lifetime supply of chocolate cake, and I wouldn’t even blame him.”

You laughed, a real laugh this time. “Noted.”

And just like that, the heaviness started to lift.

—

The night had dragged on in its quiet way. You had kept things light, just like Ellen suggested—no big expectations, no emotional pleas. You were just there, letting the minutes pass by, feeling the calm of your own space.

Luke, though, wasn’t calm. Not really. You could feel the unease radiating off him even when he sat in the kitchen or when he tried to act like he was doing something important. His nerves were eating him up.

You could hear him pacing, the shuffle of his feet as he moved through the apartment. He was lost in his thoughts.

You felt it. The quiet tension between you both. But you didn’t chase him. You just stayed where you were, trying to let him come to you when he was ready.

And after a while, you couldn’t help but notice the familiar figure standing in the doorway again, looking more… unsure than usual. His eyes were on the floor, his body stiff, as though he was fighting himself.

“I’ve been a dick tonight, huh?” Luke’s voice was quiet, almost sheepish.

You paused the TV, finally giving him the attention he needed. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was no anger, just… understanding. “You’re just stressed, Luke. I get it.”

He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek. “No, it’s more than that. I’ve been a shit boyfriend.” He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration clear in his expression. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my head, I’ve barely even noticed you’re here. You deserve better than that.”

You felt a tug at your chest. He was doing it again—the self-flagellation that came with his guilt. “You’re nervous. You’re not yourself right now, and I get it. But you’re not a bad boyfriend, Luke. You are allowed to have bad days.”

But he wasn’t convinced. He took a small step forward, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. “Still, I should’ve been better. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you weren’t important just because I’m wrapped up in me.”

There was a long beat where neither of you spoke. His eyes flickered between yours, still unsure of himself. Then, in that quiet space, his tone softened, his shoulders visibly relaxing just a little. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. You don’t deserve that.”

You could feel the sincerity in his words. You smiled gently, the weight of the moment hitting you. “It’s okay, Luke. You don’t have to apologize. I know this is big for you. I just want to be here for you.”

Luke took another step closer, now standing right in front of you. His hands came out of his pockets, but he hesitated, unsure whether to reach for you or not.

Finally, after a long moment, he let out a small sigh and, with a little smirk, looked up at you. “I’m not good at this, you know. The whole… ‘talking about feelings before a big game’ thing.”

You chuckled softly, a small spark of warmth rising in your chest. “I’ve noticed.”

Luke laughed too, but it was nervous—like he didn’t quite know how to move forward. Then, in a rare moment of sweet, unguarded Luke Hughes, he cleared his throat and stepped a little closer.

“So… you’ll forgive me, right?” He was still half-joking, but the way his lips curled into that familiar shy smile made your heart beat just a little bit faster. “I’ll make it up to you… maybe with a date when I get back?”

You leaned back against the couch, pretending to deliberate for a moment, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Hmm, I don’t know. You’ve been kind of a pain in the ass, Luke. I might need more than just a date to forgive you.”

His eyes widened a little, and his mouth opened, as if ready to make some big, dramatic apology, but then you reached out, tapping him lightly on the arm.

“Kidding. I forgive you.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and his grin was suddenly much more real. “You’re really not going to make me work for it, huh?” You held his gaze, calm and steady. “No. Because I get it.”

He blinked, still caught halfway between guilt and surprise.

“You’re under pressure,” you continued gently. “This is your first Olympics, Luke. The weight of the team, the media, the expectations—you’re carrying all of it, and I see that. Tonight wasn’t your best, but I’ve had my off days too, and you’ve always been there for me.”

He stayed quiet, but his hand brushed yours, tentative.

“This is what a relationship is. You show up when it’s hard. You hold space when the other person’s struggling. I’m not going to punish you for being human. You’ve never made me feel like I had to earn your love—even when I was a mess. So why would I make you?”

Luke’s brows pulled together, that emotional edge rising in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why I’m still here.”

A pause stretched between you, full of the kind of silence that feels safe. Then Luke reached out, lacing his fingers through yours.

“Thanks for not walking away,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges.

You gave his hand a squeeze. “Always. You don’t have to be perfect with me. You just have to be honest. We’ll figure the rest out together.”

And in that moment, something shifted. The pressure didn’t vanish, but he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore. You were in it together—and that was everything.

Pillow Fights and Scandalous Interruptions

“In your smile, I see something more beautiful than the stars.”

The living room was a cozy disaster — blankets everywhere, half-eaten snacks on the coffee table, and Uno cards flung across the floor like a tornado had swept through. You and Luke were curled up on the rug, both in sweats, both far too competitive for a game meant for children.

“Blue,” you said smugly, slapping down your card. You saw the twitch in his eye. Victory was close.

Luke stared at his hand, visibly offended. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

He held your gaze for a long second… and then, like a menace, played a red card.

You blinked. “Luke. That’s red. I played blue.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Nah, I think you played red. You’re probably just confused.”

“You little—” You lunged for a pillow and whipped it at him.

He caught it mid-air, smirking like the actual devil. “Hey, don’t hate the player.”

“You’re cheating.”

He gave a mock gasp. “Accusing a national treasure like me of cheating? I’m hurt.”

You pointed at his hand. “You just picked up a card!”

“Uno,” he said smoothly, holding up one smug finger.

“You are the worst.” You pouted, folding your arms.

Luke scooted closer, nudging your knee with his. “C’mon, I’m a professional athlete. Losing isn’t in my nature.”

“Letting your girlfriend win once wouldn’t kill you.”

He leaned in, voice low. “But you look so cute when you’re fake mad at me.”

You were definitely still mad. Sort of. Okay, maybe not at all.

“I’m revoking snack privileges,” you warned, poking his chest.

He gasped like you’d threatened his career. “That’s cruel and unusual.”

“Deserved.”

Luke tilted his head, the mischief in his eyes replaced with something softer as he brushed his fingers over your knee. “Guess I’ll have to find another way to earn forgiveness.”

Before you could say a word, he pulled you into his lap like it was second nature — strong arms wrapping around your waist, the warmth of his sweatshirt and skin making it impossible to stay flustered. He looked up at you, close now, his expression shifting.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For being my safe place. Even when I’m annoying.”

You softened instantly, sliding your arms around his neck. “You’re not annoying. You’re just Luke.”

“And you’re just... magic,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “I missed this. You.”

Your breath caught, the space between you charged and humming. And then you closed the gap.

You kissed him—fierce and hungry—your lips crashing against Luke’s as you pressed yourself closer, straddling his thick frame. His body, honed from years on the ice, was solid beneath you—broad shoulders, muscular thighs, rough hands that held you with quiet command. You rocked your hips, grinding against him, and felt the hard length of him through his sweatpants, a low rumble escaping his chest as he deepened the kiss, tongue claiming yours.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured against your lips, voice low, steady, his hands gripping your waist to slow your movements just enough to keep you right where he wanted. His control was effortless, the kind that didn’t need words, just the weight of his touch. You rolled your hips again, testing, and his fingers tightened, holding you still for a moment, his brown curls falling messily over his forehead as he looked up at you, eyes dark with lust.

You smirked and tugged at his hoodie. He didn’t hesitate, letting you pull it off, and your breath caught a little. He was solid—shoulders broad, chest cut with sharp muscle from years of training. Not bulky, just lean and strong in a way that made it hard to look away. Your eyes dropped to the two small scars on his chest. One sat just below his collarbone, a faded reminder of the time Jack nearly took him out with a skate back when you were kids. The other, newer, curved faintly over his ribs—earned in last year’s game against the Panthers. You brushed your fingers over both, your touch slowing without meaning to.

He watched you with that steady, unreadable look, saying nothing as your hands moved over him, tracing the heat and shape of him. Then his hands slid under your sweatshirt, rough palms gliding over your skin as he pushed it up and off. Your tank top followed, the straps slipping from your shoulders, and then his mouth was on you—warm, sure, lips closing over your nipple in a slow pull that had you gasping.

“Luke,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his brown curls, the strands soft and messy as you held him there. He hummed against your skin, tongue flicking, one hand splayed across your back to keep you close, the other guiding your hips to grind against him at his pace. You could feel him, hard and thick, the friction driving you wild.

You slid a hand down his abs, past the waistband of his sweatpants, and wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly. He was heavy in your hand, and when you squeezed, his jaw clenched, a soft groan escaping as his hips shifted slightly.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna drive me crazy,” he said, voice rough but still steady, his hand catching your wrist to guide your strokes, showing you exactly how he wanted it.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Let me taste you,” you whispered, tugging at his sweatpants, eager to get them off. His eyes flickered with something dark and approving, and he let you slide down, his hands still on you, keeping you close as you started to work the fabric down his thighs.

Then the door burst open.

“OH MY ACTUAL GOD—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You yelped, snatching for the closest hoodie—Luke’s, of course—and dragged it over your chest with shaking hands. Your hair was a mess, your face was flushed, and your legs were very much still wrapped around your boyfriend.

Luke didn’t even flinch. He let out a long, tired sigh, like he’d just been asked to take the trash out during overtime.

Jack stood in the doorway, clutching a Gatorade like it was a weapon against sin. “Are you—” He gestured wildly. “—is this happening?! In the living room?! ON THE FLOOR?!”

Luke exhaled slowly like he’d been through this before. “You forgot to knock.”

“This is common space!” Jack cried. “This is shared air! And you’re—she’s—you’re both indecent!”

You groaned, hiding your face in Luke’s shoulder. “Jack, go away.”

But Jack wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You’re six years older than him!” he said, pointing at you like you were an ancient forest witch. “He was in middle school when you were graduating college. He had braces!”

Luke muttered, “I didn’t have braces. You had.”

“Whatever! You looked like someone who needed braces!”

You could feel Luke’s chest shaking with silent laughter under you.

Jack took a dramatic step back, clutching his Gatorade tighter. “This is a betrayal. A full-blown betrayal. I trusted you,” he said to you, eyes narrowed in mock devastation. “I loved you. I thought you were cool. Wise. Slightly scary, but like, in a hot babysitter way. Not in a ‘let me seduce your sweet, innocent, hockey-playing little brother on his living room floor’ way!”

“I didn’t seduce him,” you muttered into Luke’s shoulder.

“You didn’t need to! You’re older! That’s your superpower!”

Luke finally looked up, bored but amused. “You done?”

“No,” Jack said, walking backward toward the door like he was backing away from a crime scene. “I’m going to go scream into the void. Then I’m gonna call Mom. Then I’m burning this rug.”

“I thought you said it was your favourite rug,” Luke called after him.

“It was! Until you defiled it with your... hormones!” Jack cried, disappearing down the hall. “I need bleach. For my eyes. For my soul.”

The door slammed behind him.

Silence.

You let out a strangled sound against Luke’s neck. “I actually might die.”

Luke tilted his head and smiled lazily. “You were very hot in that whole panic moment.”

You smacked his chest. “You’re a baby, apparently. I’ve corrupted you.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling your jaw. “Keep doing it.”

Right Where It Started

“There is no greater glory than the love of a man for his wife.”

The apartment smelled like garlic, rosemary, and something sweet—maybe that wine reduction he’d been fussing over all day. You pushed the door open and kicked off your shoes with a tired sigh.

You’d spent the entire day at a charity event with the other WAGs. And while it hadn’t been terrible, it was exhausting. Smiling nonstop for cameras, making polite conversation with women who weren’t all that kind behind closed doors—it wore on you.

But then you looked up.

There he was, standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred something on the stove. He was biting his bottom lip, completely focused, completely unbothered.

And just like that, the tension slipped from your shoulders.

That’s what Luke did to you. Always had.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft.

He turned, a boyish grin spreading across his face. That same grin he gave you 2 years ago, when he was just this charming, overconfident hockey kid asking for a shot. “Perfect timing. Go sit. I made your favorite.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s the occasion?”

Luke shrugged, casual. “You’ve had a long day. I missed you. I felt like spoiling my girl.”

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. That was just Luke—always showing up in quiet, thoughtful ways. Surprise takeout on your doorstep. Sticky notes tucked into your coat pocket. The night he drove four hours without a second thought, just to hold you while you cried.

He never asked for anything in return. He just loved you the way he knew how—steadily, wholeheartedly, without conditions.

He handed you a glass of wine and you let him pamper you, letting your guard down. Letting yourself feel safe. Loved.

Dinner was perfect. The pasta was creamy and rich, the salad actually crisp (a miracle when he was in charge), and the dessert—chocolate lava cake—almost made you cry. But it was the way he looked at you that made your heart ache in the best way possible. Like you were his entire world. Like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

You leaned back, full and warm. “You’re really trying to outdo yourself tonight.”

Luke smirked, his fingers fiddling with something under the table before he stood. “I’ve been planning this for a while.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Planning what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved toward the light switch, dimming the lights and lighting a few candles along the counter. A soft amber glow filled the room, casting long shadows on the walls and making the space feel cozy, intimate. The kitchen, usually filled with the hustle and bustle of cooking, now felt like a sanctuary. The scents of fresh herbs, wine, and the lingering sweetness of dessert mixed in the air. It was as though the world outside this room no longer existed.

Luke reached for the speaker, pressing play. The soft strum of guitar filled the space, and the familiar sound of Zach Bryan’s Sun to Me began to play.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. That song. The one he'd sent when you were apart because of his tight NHL schedule, telling you it reminded him of you. “Find someone who grows flowers in the darkest parts of you.”

And that was Luke. He’d always done that for you.

He looked at you, his eyes soft yet playful. “This song… it still reminds me of you.”

A smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know,” you replied quietly. “You’ve told me before.”

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “Come here.”

You paused for a moment before he gently helped you to your feet. It felt natural, like the two of you had been waiting for this moment. He pulled you into his arms, the music surrounding you.

His hands rested on your waist as he moved with you to the rhythm of the song. “Yeah, but I’ll never stop saying it. Because it’s true. You’ve always been the one to grow flowers in me, Y/N. Even when I was at my lowest, when I didn’t believe in myself, you did. You never let me fall apart. You always saw the good in me, even when I couldn’t see it.”

A quiet silence settled between you as he pulled you even closer. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, sending a shiver down your back. You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. The soft glow from the candles bathed the two of you in a golden light. The quiet hum of the song filled the room, and the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

You closed your eyes, letting the music wash over you. As the chorus played, you caught the lyrics again—“Find someone who grows flowers in the darkest parts of you.”

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye as you whispered, “You’ve always been that for me, too.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “I think that’s why I love this song so much. It’s like a reminder of us… of what we’ve built together.”

Your heart swelled as you smiled up at him. “Yeah, we’ve built a beautiful life together, haven’t we? I cherish the love we have, Luke. We really know how to support each other without losing ourselves in it.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he nodded. “Yes, we do. And you don’t know how grateful I am for you always being by my side—believing in me, loving me the way you do.”

You chuckled, resting your head back on his chest, inhaling deeply. His scent was soft and earthy, with a touch of sweetness. It was the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a gentle embrace, like home.

“I always believed in you, Lukey. And you make it so easy to do that.”

“Always,” he echoed softly, his voice filled with quiet conviction. Then, a playful glint danced in his eyes as he pulled you even closer. “I love you so damn much, you know that?”

You nodded, your heart full as you placed your hand gently on his chest. “I love you more.”

He grinned, but his expression shifted, becoming more serious. The weight of the moment settled between you both, the warmth of the kitchen and the intimacy of the dance making everything feel timeless. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving my love for you Y/N. I promise you that.”

Before you could respond, he stepped back, his gaze locking onto yours with such intensity that you felt it in your bones. You blinked, confused, and then he dropped to one knee.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Luke…”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. You gasped before he even opened it—because you knew that box. You’d seen it before. Years ago. After a sad day. When you almost walked away because the pressure got too much. And he’d stopped you, handed you that little box and just said,“I bought this after our first date.”

He opened it. The ring inside was simple, yet breathtaking, glowing softly in the warm light. It was the same ring he had shown you that day—back when you doubted whether you were enough for him.

You remembered how he had pulled you into his arms, his voice calm and unwavering as he promised that one day, he would marry you.

“You’ve been my everything since day one, Y/N,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “People said we wouldn’t make it. They said I was too young, that it’d never work. But you… you never let go of me. You showed me what real love is. You made me want to be better, to fight for this. To fight for us.”

He smiled—soft and sure, like he was holding every moment you’d shared right there in his chest.

“You’ve stood by me through everything—the pressure, the ups and downs of hockey. When it made me bitter, when it made me ugly… you were always there, patient, understanding. You helped me remember who I am beyond the game, and you never gave up on me, even when the world made it hard.”

He paused, eyes locked with yours, full of emotion.

“I promised you back then that I’d marry you someday. And now, in the same place where I first asked you to take a chance on me…I’m asking you to make me the luckiest man alive. Will you marry me and spend forever with me?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you choked out a laugh.

“Ohh Lukey….”

He grinned.

“Is that a yes, or…?”

“Of course I’ll marry you, Luke,” you whispered, your heart swelling with emotion. Gently, you cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing across his cheekbones as you caressed him softly. His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, and he leaned in, placing a soft kiss on the palm of your hand.

“I’m so grateful you never gave up on me, that you pushed me to take a chance on us, even when I hesitated. All those fears I had? They were nothing compared to the love and strength you’ve shown me. You’re the best man I’ve ever met, Luke Hughes. I’m so lucky to be yours.”

And just like that, the boy who once asked you to see past his age became the man you’d spend forever with.

#luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes x reader #nhl fic #quinn hughes #jack hughes #lh44

200 notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 7 months ago

Text

second sight | cregan stark x oc (bonus i)

a/n: on this sweet episode of Stark-fluff, Cregan and Co. visit King's Landing. And boy, does he fucking hate it. Meanwhile, Bran's eager to connect with his Targaryen kin.

The heat pressed against Cregan Stark’s skin like a second tunic, heavy and cloying. The air in King’s Landing was thick, and damp with the scents of sweat, perfume, and the shit stench of the streets below. The Red Keep loomed above, gleaming red stone under a sun far too bright for his liking. He glanced at the bustling courtyards, the laughter and chatter of nobles weaving past him, their brightly dyed garments flaring like banners. The yellows, greens, and silks of every hue were so garish compared to the quiet greys and dark furs of Winterfell. Everything here screamed of excess, even how people spoke—words spilling out like wine, too much, too sweet, too fast.

The so-called wine he’d been served during the midday meal still churned in his stomach. It was red, but not like the rich Dornish vintages he’d had once at White Harbor. This was sharp and sour, cloying at the back of his throat. The food hadn’t fared much better: dry bread, over-salted meat, and sauces thick with spices he couldn’t name. Cregan clenched his fists. How did Claere stomach this place? She’d lived here once, grown up here. And now they were back, summoned to the capital for some political matter too tedious to justify enduring this heat.

The worst of it, though, wasn’t the heat or the food or even the absurdity of the southern finery—it was sleeping without her. Some ancient southern tradition dictated they take separate chambers while they were guests of the crown. He hadn’t asked why. He didn’t care to know. All he knew was that the empty bed in his room felt colder than any winter night, and the fact that she wasn’t beside him had gnawed at his nerves all day.

It didn’t take him long to track her down.

He found her in her chambers, standing on a dais, surrounded by an army of handmaidens. It was different from Winterfell, where her attendants numbered only two or three, and they worked in quiet efficiency, more like sisters than servants. These women buzzed like a hive, fixing the smallest fold of fabric, pinning her hair with jeweled combs.

And there she was—Claere.

He froze in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest. The sight of her stole every thought from his head. She stood tall and graceful, her hair woven into an intricate crown of braids, strands gleaming in the candlelight. The gown she wore was like nothing he’d ever seen: deep blue silk that shimmered with silver undertones, its sleeves draping like pendants to reveal her arms, pale and smooth. The neckline framed her collarbones, dipping just enough to tease. The bodice cinched her waist so perfectly that it might have been poured onto her, and the slit down the front laced delicately, offering a whisper of the skin beneath.

She turned slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, her expression was still, unreadable, her violet eyes flicking to meet his. Then, she smiled, soft and shy, and lifted her fingers in a small wave.

Cregan chest went tight. His heart pounded so loud he thought the handmaidens might hear it. For a moment, he forgot the heat, the food, the city he despised. He forgot to hate it all because there was only her in that instant.

One of the handmaidens giggled. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring. Claere’s smile deepened, faintly amused, though she said nothing. A woman pressed the last pin into her hair and curtsied before filing out. Claere remained where she was, poised on the dais like she belonged on top of the world entirely.

Cregan shut the door behind them with a deliberate click, the bolt sliding into place with a satisfying thud. The warmth of the chamber surrounded them, faintly scented with the oils and perfumes of the South. His eyes were on her, drinking her in as she stood before the tall mirror, her figure framed by the golden light of a dozen flickering candles.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and rough, thick with hunger.

She didn’t move, her posture as calm and composed as ever. But her lips parted slightly, the barest quirk of curiosity in her brow.

Cregan crossed the room in three strides, his boots heavy against the ornate tiled floor. When he reached her, his hands found her waist, the fine silk of her gown slipping easily beneath his calloused fingers. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body anchoring him, the air suddenly still around them.

His head dipped low, pressing a firm, deliberate kiss against the slit of fabric that curved down toward her belly.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, his voice a soft rumble. “All this skin. Why can’t you dress like this at home?”

Claere tilted her head, her violet eyes meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “I’d freeze in moments.”

He laughed, a deep, wolfish sound that rolled out of him unbidden. “Then I’d keep you warm.”

Her hand brushed over his damp hair, her fingers grazing the sweat gathered at his temple. “Not while you reek of sweat.”

He leaned into her touch, undeterred by her observation. “I’m not wearing those ridiculous coats they want me in,” he grumbled, his Northern pride rising.

“But you are sweating,” she repeated, a ghost of amusement flickering across her otherwise serene expression.

Cregan groaned, wrapping his fingers around hers and guiding her carefully down from the dais.

“It’s just a bit of water, love.”

Her gown whispered against the floor as she stepped down. She cast a glance at him, the faintest quirk of mischief in her eyes. “You would look rather noble in an overcoat,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

He snorted, shaking his head with a mockery of disbelief. “Would. Will never.”

Her lips curved into something soft and understanding, the expression only she could manage. “It's alright,” she said simply. Her fingers tightened in his, her voice a quiet promise. “We can leave first thing tomorrow.”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he lowered her forehead to hers. “We got here yesterday,” he said, his tone light with affection.

Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, her breath soft against his cheek. “I know,” she whispered.

His chest tightened at the words, an ache blooming there that wasn’t unfamiliar, but tonight, it felt sharper. He lingered in the warmth of her presence, the silk of her gown brushing against the coarse leather of his tunic. The scent of her was maddening—some southern concoction that mingled with the subtle lavender she always carried. He hated how it suited her, hated how this place seemed to mould itself around her. But Gods, how she looked here, how she belonged.

“I suppose some fresh air should help with the heat,” she drawled thoughtfully.

Her steps were deliberate, and graceful, as if she had walked these halls all her life. For a moment, Cregan’s eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth twitched into something between awe and defiance.

"Arm?" she asked, glancing at him.

“Aye, my lady, always,” he replied, his voice gruff.

His hand found the crook of her elbow. They stepped out of the chambers together, her delicate hand on his forearm.

The corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast stretched before them, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows that flickered with torchlight. Claere’s gaze wandered from door to door, deep in recollections, her violet eyes tracing the intricate carvings and golden inlays that adorned every arch.

Cregan, meanwhile, scowled away his frustration. "All this gold and they can’t even serve a proper roast. That pheasant at supper—dry as bone. And what’s that sauce they drown everything in?"

"Spiced honey," Claere replied, though she kept her eyes forward, lips curving faintly.

He snorted. “Spiced, indeed. Tasted like it came straight out of a septon’s tight arse.”

Claere stifled a laugh, her lips pressing together as they walked.

“You’re quite the guest,” Claere murmured, her voice as smooth as silk.

“Guest,” he echoed bitterly, his jaw tightening. “A guest in a city that couldn’t be farther from the North. Look at this place—all gilded stone and false smiles. Give me the cold and honest halls of Winterfell any day.”

His words came rough, unfiltered, the kind he rarely let slip outside the privacy of their chambers. But the South clawed at his patience, and his discomfort had no place to hide.

Claere didn’t answer at once. Her gaze drifted upward, catching the way the golden sunlight angled through an open archway, illuminating the intricacies of the tapestries along the walls. She lingered in the quiet, as she often did, before finally glancing at him, her expression soft and thoughtful.

“Would you like to walk by the sea?” she asked, her voice carrying the faintest lilting warmth, as though the memory of it lived in her words. “I used to love watching the ships when I was small. Perhaps you'd feel more at ease there.”

Cregan paused mid-step, her words surprising him. He opened his mouth, but the immediate retort died on his tongue. He realized, too late, how his words had landed—disdain aimed not only at the South but at the place where she had once lived, once laughed, once grown into the woman who now stood beside him. A pang of shame gripped him. She had never uttered a word against Winterfell, though the North had been slow to accept her. Yet here he was, spitting curses at her childhood home like a petulant boy.

“I’d like that very much,” he said finally, his tone softening, almost contrite.

She gave a slight nod, her lips twitching faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. She said nothing more, but he could feel her watching him as they moved through the Red Keep’s curving corridors, his silence now more reflective.

The air shifted as they descended through the castle gardens, the sharp floral perfume of the South mingling with the faint salt tang carried on the breeze. They passed fountains of carved marble and hedges trimmed into unnatural shapes, the paths too clean and the sunlight too bright for Cregan to feel at ease. Yet as they rounded a final corner, the horizon opened up to them.

The lush gardens gave way to a stone balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, the fountain at its centre singing softly in the breeze. Beyond, the water stretched endlessly, its surface shimmering like molten gold under the afternoon sun. The wind picked up, cool and bracing against the heat, carrying with it the scent of salt and something untamed.

Cregan stopped at the edge, his hands resting on the warm stone railing. For the first time since their arrival, his shoulders eased, the weight of the city loosening its grip. As he drew a long breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, he thought, for the first time, that perhaps the South wasn’t entirely without its charms. Not when she was here.

“It’s not so bad,” he admitted grudgingly, his voice quieter now, more grounded.

Claere stood beside him, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon, the endless expanse of Blackwater Bay glimmering under the sun. The breeze toyed with the loose tendrils of her silver hair, brushing them against her cheek, and she seemed lost in thought, her silence as soft and vast as the sea itself. When she finally spoke, her voice was peaceful, a quiet anchor in the weight of the day.

“Forgive me. I didn’t think you had to come all this way.” She turned to him, her gaze meeting his, sincere and unyielding. “It’s only Jace’s coronation. It’d be improper for me not to show my support.”

Cregan held her gaze for a long moment, the words settling between them like stones dropped into deep water. He reached for her hand, his calloused fingers brushing against hers, and for a moment, the warmth of her touch quieted the turmoil inside him.

“Wherever you go, I follow,” he said simply, his voice softer now, more certain.

Her eyes flickered a subtle acknowledgment of his loyalty, before narrowing slightly, playful yet questioning. “Do you truly hate this place that much?”

He let out a low, sardonic laugh, leaning his elbows against the stone railing. “Hate might be too soft a word. It’s too hot, too bright, and the food’s about as satisfying as eating sawdust.” He turned his head, meeting her gaze. “And don’t even get me started on that tart red piss they call wine.”

A small smile curved her lips, faint but unmistakable. “You’ve been drinking it.”

“Because Lucerys poured it himself,” Cregan shot back. “And if I’d refused, I’m certain it would’ve become some grave insult to the Targaryen name.” He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Can’t have Lord Stark burned to a crisp, can we?”

Her smile lingered, and she tilted her head, considering him with quiet amusement. “You’re still sweating.”

“It’s the heat,” he grumbled, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “And this gods-forsaken leather. What would you have me do? Strip down and sit bare-chested in the middle of court?”

Her eyes glimmered with something close to mischief. “I’m sure that would make an impression.”

Cregan turned to face her fully, his brow arching. “And what impression would that be?”

“That the Northmen are as wild as they’re rumoured to be,” she said lightly, a faint tease threading her tone. “They might start calling you the Bear of Winterfell.”

He let out a short bark of laughter, the sound startling even himself. “The Bear? Better than most things they’ve called me today.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Though I’d wager they’re far more interested in you.”

Her gaze softened, but she said nothing. She simply looked at him, her quiet demeanour grounding him in a way the chaos of the Red Keep never could. Slowly, she lifted their joined hands and pressed her fingers to his wrist, her touch light yet deliberate.

“I don’t care what they think,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper.

The warmth in her words tugged at his guilt, a pang sharp enough to silence his earlier complaints. He turned his hand to cradle hers properly, rough fingers grazing the fine lines of her palm.

“You grew up here,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, tinged with regret. “And I’ve done nothing but condemn it since we arrived. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Her lips parted to speak, but she didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she gave his hand the faintest squeeze, grounding him.

“The North is your home. You don’t have to love it here,” she said, her tone as steady as ever. “But it’s part of me, just as Winterfell is a part of you.”

He sighed, dipping his head closer to hers. “You’re too forgiving,” he murmured.

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” she countered softly.

The tension between them broke like ice under spring sunlight. She leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her movements so natural it was as though they were alone on some frozen expanse instead of standing in the open gardens of the Red Keep. Cregan stiffened briefly, the ever-present sense of propriety tugging at his instincts, but her warmth quickly dispelled it. Let them look, he thought.

“I don’t like this place,” he admitted after a moment, his voice low. “But I like you in it.”

Her head tilted slightly, her breath ghosting against his neck as she spoke, barely above a murmur. “I only like that you're here.”

His chest tightened at the simplicity of her words, their truth unadorned and cutting. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, uncaring of who might be watching. His hand slid to her lower back as he eased her against the balustrade, the coarse material of his leather brushing against her softer silks. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze dropped to hers, his large hands bracketing either side of her, blocking any escape. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she didn’t retreat—she never did.

“I’ve made my peace with it now.”

Claere arched a delicate brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Have you?”

Before she could say another word, he leaned in, his intent clear.

“Aye. I should think,” he said, his voice low and wanting, “that I’m owed a proper kiss for enduring this place without setting half of it ablaze.”

She arched a brow, raising her palm to his lips, halting his advance any further.

“Might I remind you,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “that we share four children? If I want to make another child in the Red Keep, I should think I’m owed the courtesy of seclusion.”

Cregan barked a laugh, the sound rolling through the gardens like a wolf’s howl. “The courtesy, is it?” He grinned, unrepentant. “Perhaps I like the idea of giving the South a show.”

Her laughter bubbled again, only to turn into a surprised gasp as he suddenly swept her off her feet, hoisting her into his arms with ease.

“Cregan!” she squeaked, her hands clutching his shoulders as he carried her toward the ornate fountain.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he perched her precariously on the edge of the stone basin, her balance wobbling as she grasped at his shoulder for support. The water behind her sparkled in the sunlight, a picturesque backdrop for her indignant glare.

“Get me down this instant!” she protested.

He grinned up at her, the glint in his eyes sharp and mischievous. “I thought you didn’t care what they think,” he drawled, tilting his head toward the guards, who were now openly staring at them.

Claere’s frown deepened, though it was betrayed by the twitch of a smile. “Cregan,” she warned, her tone sharp but losing its edge.

“Will you let me kiss you?” he asked, voice full of mock gravity.

She cocked a brow, folding her arms even as her dangerous perch forced her to lean on him. “After this? Not likely.”

He clicked his tongue and then, with a sharp whistle, called out to the guards. “Oy, lads!” His voice boomed with bravado, loud enough to echo off the garden walls. “Lady Stark’s making an effort to get in my breeches, and you’re just going to stand around and watch? You sick fucks.”

The guards, flustered and wide-eyed, shuffled and stammered before hastily retreating around the nearest corner.

“Cregan!” Claere’s voice was sharp, but the laughter bubbling beneath it betrayed her outrage.

“There we go,” he said, turning back to her with a smug grin, utterly satisfied. “No one’s watching us. Where's that kiss?”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though she couldn’t keep the laughter from spilling out.

“And you’re beautiful,” he shot back, leaning in again.

She sighed, letting him haul her down from the fountain and into his arms. Her fingers curled into the thickness of his jacket, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Kiss me then.”

The kiss was brief but searing, noses stroking, smiles wide, a moment of stolen fire in the gardens of a place neither of them belonged. Claere pulled back first, her cheeks tinged with colour, though whether it was from the kiss or the embarrassment of being manhandled in full view of fleeing guards, Cregan couldn’t say.

“Do you have to make a spectacle of us every time?” she asked, her voice laced with exasperated fondness as she stepped back to smooth the fabric of her gown.

“Only when it’s worth watching,” Cregan replied, his grin unapologetic. He reached out to tug a strand of silver hair that had come loose from her braid. “And you, my love, are always worth watching.”

Her lips quirked in a reluctant smile, her eyes flicking toward the open path where the guards had retreated moments before. “You’re lucky they didn’t faint from sheer humiliation. I thought Northerners valued their dignity.”

“If there’s no fun to be had, I cannot refuse,” he quipped, his hands settling on his hips as he glanced around the gardens. The wind carried the brine of the sea, and the faint murmur of distant voices reached them, though the path remained deserted.

Claere shook her head, turning toward the fountain, her fingers idly brushing along the stone’s intricate carvings. “You’ll make the septas gossip for months. ‘The Wolf and his wild displays.’”

“Good,” he said, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. She felt cold, from the chilly satin. “Maybe they’ll finally stop whispering about the Valyrian witch.”

Her posture stiffened briefly before she relaxed, leaning back into him. She tilted her head slightly, her voice quiet but edged. “They’ve never mattered to me.”

He frowned, his chin resting atop her head. “They’d matter to me if they ever dared say it to your face.”

“And what would you do?” she asked, her tone lighter now, teasing. “Bash a septa’s head in with your precious Northern honour?”

He smirked. “If I have to.”

Her laugh broke through the tension like sunlight through clouds, soft and sudden. She turned in his arms, her hands resting against his chest. “There are days I don’t know what to do with you, Lord Stark.”

“Love me,” he said simply, the grin slipping from his face as he met her gaze with earnest warmth.

“I already do,” she murmured, her thumb brushing absently against his cheek. “'Tis a nuisance.”

For a moment, they stood there, the world beyond the gardens blurring into nothing. It was only them, as it always seemed to be, no matter the distance or the trials they endured.

Then, of course, Cregan broke the moment.

“Shall we give them something else to talk about?” Cregan’s grin widened, a boyish gleam of mischief lighting his features.

Claere narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her lips parting to question him, but before she could speak, he swept her off her feet again. A gasp escaped her, followed by half-hearted protests muffled by her laughter as he spun her around in a wide arc.

“Put me down!” she cried, clutching his shoulders as the world tilted around her.

Her protests only seemed to encourage him. “Put you down?” he mused, his tone teasing as he held her aloft. He glanced at the fountain ahead, where the sunlight danced on the water’s surface. “Down in the fountain? Or perhaps in the sea?”

Her skirts brushed against the cool spray of the fountain, making her squirm in his hold. “Cregan Stark, don’t you dare!” she warned, though her laughter betrayed her delight.

He laughed along with her, the sound deep and rich. “Promise me something first,” he said, his voice mock-serious, though his eyes danced with amusement.

“And what is that?” she asked, tilting her head, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight.

“That you’ll drink the red piss wine with me the next time we’re here.”

Claere groaned dramatically, her head falling against his shoulder as she dissolved into laughter. “I’d rather face a dragon.”

Cregan chuckled, lowering her just enough that her feet skimmed the ground but keeping her firmly in his hold. “Lucky for you,” he said with a playful smirk, “you’ve already got the White Dread on your side.”

“And you,” she murmured, her laughter softening into a smile as her hand settled on his chest.

“Always me,” he promised, finally setting her down, though his hand lingered at her waist. The moment her feet touched the ground, she slipped her hand into his, their fingers lacing together as naturally as the tide meeting the shore.

They walked toward the garden’s edge, where the sound of waves whispered promises of freedom and escape. The sea breeze played at their hair, carrying their laughter over the walls of the keep.

Guards stationed nearby exchanged knowing glances, smirking behind their helms. Their love was a subject of quiet admiration, a rare warmth in Winterfell’s stoic halls. And though the couple walked on, seemingly alone, their bond was never unnoticed.

As the waves beckoned them onward, Claere glanced up at him, her violet eyes alight with mirth. “Even in this wretched place,” she said softly.

Cregan’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her in his steady presence. “Especially in this place,” he corrected with a gentle smile. "Where else would I want to be but at your side?"

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a grand stage for celebration, though the ever-present shadow of the Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the room, casting jagged shapes across the banners of red and black, each adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Long tables stretched beneath the vaulted ceiling, groaning under the weight of golden platters, roasted meats, and goblets brimming with Dornish wine. Laughter and music filled the air, but the undercurrent of tension was as thick as the scent of spiced lamb and honeyed ham. This was King’s Landing—where alliances and betrayals were decided with a glance, and no gaze lingered without meaning.

The great doors creaked open, a low groan that silenced the hum of conversation in the hall. Heads turned, drawn as much by the sound as by the imposing figure that entered. Lord Cregan Stark strode into the chamber, his presence commanding in its stark simplicity. Draped in heavy northern velvet, the deep grey of his cloak was clasped at the shoulders with snarling wolf-heads wrought in polished iron. Against the opulence of the Crownlands’ finery—silks that shimmered like water, gold heavy as ambition—he stood out like the first shadow before a storm.

At his side, Lady Claere moved with an ethereal calm, a quiet dignity that seemed to still the air around her. Her expression, serene but distant, gave away nothing, and yet it drew every gaze like a whispered challenge. She was not garbed in the colours of flame and pageantry that adorned the court but in a pale gown that shimmered faintly, its simplicity outshining the artifice around her.

They were the North embodied: stark, unyielding, and undeniably present. The southern courtiers shifted uneasily, some bowing, others murmuring among themselves, as the Lord of Winterfell and the silver-haired first daughter of House Targaryen walked past them.

Brandon Stark, only eleven but every bit his father’s son in spirit, too tall for his age, perched at Cregan’s side. His silver hair caught the torchlight like polished steel, strikingly contrasting the dusky, layered northern doublet he wore. Brimming with youthful excitement, the boy’s wolfish grey eyes flitted around the hall as if trying to absorb every detail. From the golden chandeliers to the opulent silks draped over the high table, it was a world far removed from the rugged stone of Winterfell.

The feast was meant to honour Jacaerys Velaryon’s coronation on the morrow, yet as the Starks passed, the hall rippled with murmurs. All eyes seemed drawn not to Cregan or even young Brandon who bore the close hallmarks of Old Valyria but to Claere—the woman who, by birthright, could claim the Iron Throne if she so chose.

The Targaryen banners overhead seemed to shift uneasily, the dancing flames making the three-headed dragon appear alive. Whispers chased the Starks down the aisle, tugging at the edges of the great hall's jubilant façade.

“Princess Claere Velaryon...”

“The Queen Who Never Was.”

“Nay, her blood holds more fire than Jacaerys’s...”

“If she had wanted the throne—”

“But she married the Wolf.”

“She's the Winter's Queen now.”

The low hum of speculation reached even the dais, where Rhaenyra and Daemon sat flanking Jacaerys. Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her violet gaze narrowing ever so slightly as it followed her daughter’s steady progress. Daemon’s smirk widened, his hand idly spinning the stem of his goblet, watching as though the feast had taken an unexpected and delightful turn.

But Claere moved with an ethereal calm, her head held high, her hands folded before her. The train of her pale blue gown, embroidered with white-gold leaves and stitched dragons, trailed behind her like freshly fallen snow. She did not look left or right, though she was acutely aware of the eyes fixed on her.

They reached the dais, where the heart of the family sat like the sun at the centre of its orbit. At its centre sat Jacaerys Velaryon, his crown a fiery band of gold wrought into dragon wings. He exuded easy authority, his smile warm yet edged with caution like a blade sheathed but not forgotten. Beside him was Baela, her silver hair catching the light like a polished jets, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall with a quiet pride that spoke of a warrior's vigilance. Their children flanked them: Laena and Daeron, poised and princely, speaking in hushed tones between delicate bites.

To their left, Lucerys and Rhaena whispered and laughed like co-conspirators, their bond evident in every stolen glance and shared smirk, while Joffrey charmed his betrothed with exaggerated gestures, his joviality a balm to the tension that lingered in the air. At the table's edge sat Rhaenyra and Daemon, aged but undiminished. Rhaenyra’s presence commanded respect, her violet eyes sharp as steel. Beside her, Daemon lounged like a coiled dragon, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder, his sharp gaze roving the hall as though he were cataloguing its players.

Jacaerys rose first, unbefitting his position, the movement subtle yet commanding. Silence fell over the hall like the turning of a tide, his authority palpable. His gaze swept over the trio approaching him, pausing briefly on Brandon before settling firmly on Claere.

“Sweet sister,” he said, his voice carrying enough warmth to veil the undertone of command. “It pleases me to see you here after so long. You look well.”

Claere curtseyed, her movement graceful, her voice soft but steady. “Brother,” she greeted, the single word weighted with a thousand unspoken meanings.

It was Joffrey who broke the formality, rounding the table to embrace his sister as if no years had passed since their last meeting. Where he had once been a mere boy of ten, burying his face in her waist, now he held her tightly, the man he had become pressing a familial kiss to her cheek.

“Lord Stark,” Jacaerys continued, his tone shifting as his gaze turned to Cregan. Joffrey lingered beside his sister, still holding her hand as if reluctant to let her go.

“The North honors us with your presence,” Jacaerys said.

Cregan inclined his head, his words measured, his tone neutral. “The honor is ours, my king.”

Jacaerys’s gaze shifted again, his smile breaking into something warmer, easier. “And you must be Brandon Stark,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s good to finally meet you, nephew. The blood of the dragon burns bright in you.”

Cregan’s hand fisted briefly at his side, but his expression remained impassive.

Before the moment could stretch into tension, Rhaenyra’s voice carried over the hum of the feast. Though time had etched its mark upon her, her presence was no less commanding. Her tone, measured and regal, filled the space between them.

“Lord Stark,” she began, her violet eyes resting on Cregan, “you’ve brought your eldest, but what of my other grandchildren? I hear you have a fine brood at Winterfell.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened slightly, his discomfort evident in the subtle shift of his posture. “They are too young to travel the Kingsroad,” he replied curtly, his voice a low rumble.

The stark simplicity of his response brought a ripple of quiet across the table. Rhaenyra’s expression wavered, the faintest edge of offence flickering like a shadow.

Before the unease could settle, Claere stepped forward, her voice calm and steady as a winter wind. “They are quite well, Mother,” she said, her serene smile meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze. “Rickon already dreams of commanding the vanguard like his father. Edric”—her lips quirked slightly—“has taken to sneaking pastries from the kitchen. And little Luce…” Her tone softened, and warmth crept into her expression. “She’s discovered archery from her brothers. A proper little warrior, though she insists on naming every sparrow she meets.”

The tension broke as faint laughter rippled among those listening, and even Rhaenyra’s gaze softened. “It seems they thrive under your care,” she said warmly. “Winterfell is fortunate to have such a lady.”

“You flatter me, Mother,” Claere replied, bowing her head with a grace that seemed instinctual.

Cregan exhaled quietly, his shoulders loosening as the moment passed. The interlude was interrupted by Jacaerys, his voice warm yet commanding as it carried over the table.

“The White Wolf, is it?” he called, leaning forward from his gilded seat. His dark hair framed his sharp smile, confidence radiating like the glow of a dragon’s flame.

Brandon straightened instinctively, his cheeks reddening as all eyes turned to him. “The North heralds me too much too soon, Your Grace,” he said quickly, his voice clear and earnest.

Jacaerys chuckled, raising his goblet in a mock salute. “A Stark with humility? A rare breed indeed.” The jest drew a ripple of laughter. “But no need for titles, nephew. Call me uncle.”

The boy’s face lit up, his youthful nervousness melting into a smile. “Uncle,” he repeated, the word sitting comfortably on his tongue.

“And tell me, Brandon,” Jacaerys continued, leaning slightly closer, “is it true you’ve been training with a sword? Daemon tells me you’ve a good arm for your age.”

Brandon brightened, his excitement spilling over. “I have! Father says I’m stronger than most boys my age. I practice every day in the yard with the master-at-arms.”

“Oh, has he now?” Jacaerys grinned, casting a glance at Cregan. “Sounds like you’ll make a fine squire soon enough. What do you say, White Wolf? Would you squire for me, come winter?”

Brandon’s breath hitched, his grey eyes wide with awe. “Aye, my king. I would, absolutely!”

The table erupted in laughter and good-natured cheers from the Velaryon and Targaryen kin. Rhaena, seated beside Lucerys, smiled warmly at the boy, and even Joffrey offered a nod of approval. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and soon Brandon found himself swept into the fold, his questions and stories met with encouragement and kindness.

From further down the table, Daemon’s sharp, cutting voice reached them, unmistakable even amidst the lively din of the feast.

“So, lad,” he began, leaning forward with his goblet in hand, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder. His gaze rested on Brandon with a predator's curiosity. “What’s your dragon called? I imagine it's speed and size akin to your mother's White Dread.”

The question froze the boy in place. His youthful confidence faltered, replaced by hesitation. He looked to his mother, then to his father, but neither answered for him. Claere’s serene expression didn’t shift, though her brows lifted subtly, a small gesture of encouragement.

Brandon swallowed. “I don’t have a dragon, Your Grace. Neither do my brothers and sister.” His voice was steady, though the words were clearly an effort to say.

The silence that followed wasn’t oppressive, but it lingered long enough for Cregan to bristle. His jaw tightened, and his hand flexed once before he leaned a step closer, his steely gaze fixed on Daemon.

Daemon’s smirk widened, his goblet tilting lazily in his hand. “No dragon, eh?” he drawled, eyeing his silver hair and features. “That’s unusual for one with so much Targaryen blood.” His gaze flicked to Claere, then back to the boy. “Surely your mother would have gifted you an egg.”

Brandon’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Cregan cut in, his voice low and firm. “The Starks have no need for dragons and wyverns,” he said, each word deliberate. “We are wolves.”

Daemon raised a brow, his smirk undiminished. “Wolves may run well in snow, but they don’t fly. Am I right, Claere?”

Claere managed a shaky smile.

“The North stands without wings,” Cregan retorted, his tone growing colder. “We always have. We always will.”

Claere’s hand on his forearm stilled him. Her touch was light, but the look she gave him—calm, steady, and unreadable—silenced the retort building in his throat. She turned her attention to Daemon, her expression serene.

“Dragons are not all that are a measure of man,” she said softly. Her violet eyes settled on Brandon, a quiet pride shining in them. “And wolves do not need to fly to command respect.”

Brandon straightened, emboldened by her words. “I shall squire for the King,” he said suddenly, his voice firm and sure. “Dragon or no dragon, I’ll serve with honour. My sword is yours.”

The table chuckled, the tension breaking like a wave receding from the shore. Daemon gave a low laugh, tilting his goblet toward Brandon. “We’ll see if the little wolf can keep up,” he said, though the words lacked the earlier bite.

Brandon grinned, his earlier unease gone. He turned back to his grandfather, his grey eyes bright with excitement. “You will see, Your Grace.”

A moment of pride swelled within Cregan. His eldest son, holding himself up before the family he had driven to keep at arm's length. Soon, the Stark trio were ushered away from the dais, away from the chaos.

Cregan and Claere were seated farthest away, though their most immediate family, their presence a clear demarcation of their difference from the Targaryens’ inner circle. The distance may have been political, a subtle reminder that while Cregan was a king in his own right, the North was far removed from the intrigues of the South. Or perhaps it was a kindness—to keep them from the full extent of Southern eyes and whispers.

Cregan, sitting as still as the mountains he ruled, seemed carved from the same stone. The velvet black overcoat he wore—tailored in the southern style—sat awkwardly on his broad frame, but he bore it with stoic determination. He tugged once at the stiff collar, a prison of its own, his discomfort as plain as the wine in his untouched goblet, but when Claere’s hand brushed his under the table, he relented.

He glanced her way, catching the soft curve of her lips, and sighed. She had asked him to wear it, after all. And for her, he would.

“Da,” Brandon’s voice broke the lull, soft but curious. The boy leaned closer, his grey eyes darting toward the high table. “Why aren’t we sitting up there?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze to the gleaming dais, where the Targaryens sat cloaked in splendour and formidable grace.

“That’s my uncle, the king. And my grandmother, the queen mother?” Brandon pressed, his young face shadowed with confusion.

Cregan’s gaze flicked back to his son, sharp as the frost beyond the Wall. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “They’re your kin.”

“Then why are we here?” Brandon gestured at the low table, where the Starks had been placed, as though set apart by invisible walls. “At home, Luce and all of us sit together at the table. So why not here? We’re family, aren’t we?”

Cregan let out a low, humourless chuckle. “Family by blood, maybe. But blood means little in this hall. The North is our seat, not this nest of vipers.”

Brandon frowned, unsatisfied. “But you are a king too,” he pointed out. “The King in the North.”

“King,” Cregan admitted, his voice gruff. “But here? Dragonblood casts a longer shadow.” His tone softened as he leaned closer, his words meant only for Brandon. “Did you know, little wolf? Your mother could sit on the Iron Throne if she willed it. She could walk up there and claim the throne as her own, not a tongue would raise against her. Not even her own brother.”

Brandon blinked, stunned. “Ma?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She could rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

“And you,” Cregan said, his expression thoughtful, “would be her heir. A prince of the realm.” He reached out, ruffling his son’s unruly curls. “But it was not in your mother's interest.”

The boy’s gaze flickered to his mother, who sat serene and unyielding, as timeless as winter itself. Her quiet smile, so untouched by the pomp and grandeur around her. She seemed apart from it all—rooted in some deeper, colder truth that made the gilded splendour of the hall feel hollow.

Brandon’s attention followed his line of sight, drawn inevitably to the Iron Throne. That jagged, monstrous seat of swords loomed above the hall, its sharp edges whispering of blood spilt and secrets kept. It was no mere throne—it was a warning, a legacy forged in fire and fear.

“It doesn’t suit her,” Brandon murmured, as if speaking a truth he’d only just realized.

“No,” Cregan agreed, his voice low and steady. “It does not.”

Brandon tilted his head, his youthful curiosity breaking through the moment. “But why? Why did she refuse?”

Cregan’s eyes lingered on Claere beside him, silently playing with her spoon, a soft murmur under her breath, her soft profile catching the flicker of firelight. There was a reverence in his voice as he answered, low and intended.

“Because she does not rule with swords and fear. The Iron Throne demands both—and she would not let it make her cruel.”

Brandon furrowed his brow, his gaze flicking between his father and the twisted enormity at the heart of the hall. “So... she chose you instead?”

Cregan turned to his son, a rare softness in his expression. “She chose herself—and the family we built together.”

The words hung in the air, wrapping around the three of them like a protective shield. Claere paused her quiet humming, her violet eyes flicking up to meet Cregan’s for a brief moment. There was no need for words between them.

Brandon, however, found his attention drifting elsewhere. His gaze wandered to a cluster of figures seated at a smaller table on the far side of the hall, shadowed but unmistakable. There was something about them—an air of detachment, of belonging to a different story entirely. One of them caught his eye, a tall, lean figure with long silver hair and an eyepatch glinting in the candlelight.

Brandon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name. He knew the man, though he’d never met him. Knew him from tales that Maester had painted of him, of his mount, Vhagar. Of how he'd claimed such a dragon, so young. Aemond One-Eye. The rogue prince whose name carried both dread and fascination.

He turned back to his father, keeping his voice low. “Da,” he asked cautiously, his words edged with unease. “How come they’re here?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze, his posture stiffening as his eyes landed on the table. Aemond sat with a languid confidence, his single eye gleaming with sharp amusement as though he could sense the Stark lord’s scrutiny. Nearby sat Alicent, her posture rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Helaena sat, twisting a strand of her hair and shot Brandon a small smile, while Aegon, glassy-eyed and dishevelled, picked at his plate without interest.

“They, too, are your mother’s kin,” Cregan said after a moment, his voice clipped. “Her uncles and aunt. They’re not well-loved here, even now.”

Brandon’s brow furrowed again, but his eyes remained fixed on Aemond. “Aemond One-Eye is a skilled swordsman,” he said in a hushed voice, almost in awe. “Father, you must let me—”

“Bran.” Cregan’s tone was sharp, cutting his son off before he could finish. “That is where we draw the line.”

The boy flinched slightly at the firmness in his father’s voice. He glanced at Claere, hoping for some reprieve, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was steady, locked on the silver-haired prince across the hall.

Aemond, as if sensing their attention, smirked. It was a cruel, knowing expression, one that seemed to challenge the very air between them. His single eye glinted as it flicked from Claere to Cregan, lingering just long enough to feel like a deliberate taunt.

Cregan’s hand tightened into a fist, though he didn’t rise or speak. His jaw worked as he stared back, his wolf’s eyes cold and unyielding.

The tension in the hall crackled like frost underfoot. Brandon, though young, could feel it as he watched his father’s jaw tighten and his gaze narrow at the far table. Aemond’s smirk had only deepened as he leaned back lazily, his long fingers curling around the stem of his goblet. It was the posture of a man who feared no consequence, and it made Brandon’s stomach twist.

Cregan’s voice, when it came, was low but carried the weight of ice. “You’re a bold man, Prince Aemond,” he said, the title clipped, bitter on his tongue. “To sit there smirking like a cat in a coop, after the damage your house has done.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, the firelight glinting off the edge of his eyepatch. His smirk widened, sharper now, more deliberate. “Damage?” he echoed, the word soft but dripping with mockery. “Surely you’ve seen your share of bloodshed, Stark. Or do Northerners keep their hands so clean they can point fingers without guilt?”

Cregan rose slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, the sound grating enough to make Claere glance up from her quiet contemplation. “If my hands were unclean, prince,” Cregan said, his voice a low growl, “you’d feel it across your jaw.”

“Father, don't,” Brandon whispered, alarmed, tugging at his sleeve.

Aemond leaned forward slightly, as though entertained by the rising tension. “Yes, listen to your pup, Stark. Threats have a way of turning into invitations. And I accept such things readily.”

“Aemond,” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp, though it wavered at the edges. “Enough. You shame yourself—and us.” She placed a hand on his arm, as though to stay him, but he brushed it off gently without looking at her.

Brandon, encouraged by his father’s stance, couldn’t hold back his question. “Why do you act like this?” he asked, his young voice cutting through the room like an unexpected breeze. His words were unpolished, direct. “You’re supposed to be our kin.”

Aemond turned his head sharply, his single eye locking onto the boy. The smirk faded, replaced by something colder, though not entirely without amusement.

“And what would a boy like you know of kinship?” he asked, his voice soft and biting. “The White Wolf—even the name leaves my tongue feeling sour. When a direwolf lays with a bastard dragon, do you call that kinship? Or depravity?”

Cregan’s fist slammed onto the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Speak those words before my family again, and I’ll make sure your other eye matches the first.”

“Enough. Both of you,” Claere said, her voice cutting through the room like a whip crack. She stood, her hands calm, but her eyes burned with a quiet fury as they fixed on Aemond. “Aemond, you’ve proven your wit. Cregan, your son has his eyes on you.”

Cregan hesitated, his grey eyes lingering on Aemond for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply and sat back down. Brandon clung to his father's shoulder as if restraining him.

Aemond met her gaze for a moment, his smirk threatening to return, but when he saw the set of her jaw and the icy stillness of her expression, he gave a slight incline of his head.

“As you wish, sweet niece,” he murmured, though the mockery lingered in his tone.

Alicent, looking harried, finally pulled at Aemond’s sleeve with more force. “Come,” she said firmly. “We’ve lingered long enough.”

With a shrug, Aemond rose, draining the last of his wine before setting the goblet down with deliberate care. He glanced at Cregan one last time, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye. Then, with a flick of his violet eye, he turned and strode out, Alicent following close behind.

The doors groaned shut behind them, leaving a silence that was more deafening than the clamor of conversation earlier.

Brandon sat stiffly, his small hands clutching the edge of the table. His gaze darted to his father, wide-eyed, searching for answers he could not yet articulate. “Da,” he began, his voice unsure.

Cregan’s sharp look silenced him. “The world doesn’t fight fair, Bran,” he said, his voice low, like the growl of a wolf. “Men like him thrive on your weakness. Remember that.”

Brandon nodded but said nothing, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Claere’s hand brushed against Cregan’s arm, the touch light but insistent. He turned his head slightly, his storm-grey eyes softening only for her. She leaned closer, her voice a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the torches.

“Nothing about this place feels right. I feel sick,” she murmured, her gaze flicking past Cregan’s shoulder to where Helaena sat at her table. The Targaryen princess’s pale eyes were fixed on Claere, her expression unreadable but laced with a quiet sorrow.

Cregan followed her gaze briefly before nodding. His hand closed over hers, rough and grounding, before he rose. “Let's have you rested, my love.”

Bran watched his parents, deploring.

“We’re leaving,” Cregan said firmly, his voice cutting through the lingering unease in the hall. He placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, urging the boy to his feet. Claere stood as well, taking Bran into the arch of her side.

As they moved toward the exit, the sound of their steps echoed in the cavernous room, every eye tracking their departure. The doors closed behind them with a dull thud, the sound resonating like the closing of some unseen door in fate’s design.

Cregan paced the chambers, the soft candlelight casting flickering shadows over his bare chest. There was a sheen to him, like he'd returned from a swim out at sea when really the heat was too warm by half. His tunic and coat lay strewn across the floor, casualties of his brooding temper. His hair was mussed from the constant drag of his hand through it, his jaw set like stone, holding back the sharper edge of his fury.

Claere lay on her stomach, nestled in the grand canopy bed, the silk covers draped loosely over her shoulders, her chin resting lightly on her folded hands. Her violet eyes followed him in silence, tracking his every movement. She said nothing, but the flicker of golden light over his broad shoulders, the fire in his grey eyes, and the tension in his frame—it pleased her more than she cared to admit.

“I will not allow it,” Cregan growled, his voice low and rough, vibrating with barely restrained anger. “My son, raised in the shadow of Targaryens? Bowing to them, serving their whims?” He stopped mid-step, turning on his heel to glare into the distance. His hand raked through his hair again, tugging at the strands. “What kind of Northerner bends the knee to fire?”

“A bold one,” Claere said, her voice soft, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Cregan’s head snapped to her, his storm-grey eyes narrowing. Her calm demeanour seemed only to fuel the fire in him. “Bold?” he spat, incredulous. “No. Foolish. He’s too young to know what they’ll demand of him, what they’ll strip away. They’ll keep him here, chain him with loyalty, make him their sword—and he’s meant to rule the North, not waste his blood in service to their crown.”

Claere tilted her head slightly, the soft silver of her hair catching the faint breeze from the window. “They are his blood as much as they are mine,” she said evenly. “Is it so wrong for him to want to know them?”

Cregan let out a sharp breath, his hands bracing on his hips. “He doesn't need their approval. We're Starks,” he said, his voice cold and final as if the truth of the North was enough to silence any argument.

“And he's a Targaryen,” Claere countered, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You knew that the moment he was born.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Cregan muttered, resuming his restless pacing.

With every step, his frustration deepened, and with every sharp motion, another layer fell away, another furious mutter about the heat. His belt hit the floor first, then his boots. By the time he reached the hearth, he was stripped down to his breeches, his chest heaving with the effort of holding his temper.

“You’ll wear a trench into the stone,” Claere remarked, her tone edged with amusement.

Cregan turned, his lips twitching despite himself. “You find this amusing?”

“Not at all,” she said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “But you’re very… lively when you’re infuriated.”

He froze, staring at her, his expression torn between irritation and something warmer. “Lively?”

“Passionate,” she corrected, her gaze holding his.

The word struck him harder than he cared to admit, and for a moment, his temper wavered and a small smile bloomed. She reclined against the pillows, the golden light painting her features in soft relief. Her hair, loose and unbound, spilt across her shoulders like molten silver. There was a knowing look in her violet eyes that stilled him more effectively than any word could.

He crossed the room in a few strides, looming over the edge of the bed.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, though the fire in his voice had dimmed to an ember, flickering weakly beneath his frustration.

Claere blinked up at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Enjoying you sulking? Fuming? Growling at shadows? Jealous that your son looks up to someone who isn't you?” Her voice was soft, laced with mirth. “Perhaps.”

Cregan huffed, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. His voice dropped, low and rough. “Impossible woman.”

“Stubborn man,” she replied, her tone calm, her gaze steady.

For a moment, her words hung in the air, heavy as snow on ancient pine boughs. Cregan exhaled deeply, his shoulders sinking under her quiet truth. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw and face. It almost felt like the world's tonnage was hanging off his neck.

“Come,” Claere murmured, shifting to make space. She reached for him, her touch gentle as she guided his head to rest in her lap.

He barely hesitated before letting himself fall into her care, his weight sinking heavily onto her thighs, as though he carried the weight of every storm in Winterfell. Her fingers slipped into his dark hair, cool and soft, brushing through the strands with ease that unravelled the knot of tension coiled at the base of his neck. The quiet rhythm of her touch was soothing, a balm for the raw edges of his frustration.

“Let him be,” Claere whispered, her voice a gentle command, soft yet unyielding. “Let him find himself, make mistakes, learn. This is what he wants.”

Cregan closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. He lifted a hand, weary and slow, to rub at his face as though trying to scrub away the ache in his chest.

“He’s our son,” he said. “I can’t simply let him go. He’s but a boy.”

“Nearly eleven. A man grown,” Claere chuckled softly. It wasn’t dismissive, but tender, carrying an affection that could pierce through his storm-clouded thoughts.

His lips twitched faintly at her laughter, the corner of his mouth lifting as if to meet her warmth, but the heaviness remained, pressing against him like an unrelenting tide. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the swell of words lodged there.

“Ever since…” His voice wavered, the syllables slipping from his mouth like broken shards. “Her.”

Her hand stilled, her fingers resting gently against his temple. A shared silence fell between them, heavy with the unspoken. She didn’t need to ask who. The memory of their firstborn, the one they lost before they even knew her face, lingered between them like a shadow cast by a distant flame.

“I’ve felt this unquenching need,” Cregan said at last, his voice rough and low, as if every word cost him. “To shield everyone. I'm the one who stands between my family and the rest of the world.” His breath hitched, and his fingers clenched briefly against the fabric of her skirts. “I can’t… I cannot lose another. Cannot afford to now. Not when grief is so far behind us I dare to believe we’ve escaped it.”

The vulnerability in his voice was a rare thing, raw and unguarded, and it made Claere’s heart ache for him. She bent her head toward his, her silver hair spilling down to mingle with his dark locks. The contrast was striking, a tangle of moonlight and shadow, wolf and dragon bound together by shared pain and quiet resilience.

“You won’t lose him, Cregan,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice threading softly through the cracks in his armour. “But you have to trust him and let him grow. No matter how far he roams, he’ll always find his way back to the pack.”

His breath shuddered against her lap, the words sinking deep into the ache in his chest. Slowly, as though the weight of her assurance began to ease the crushing guilt he carried, he nodded. His head pressed against her, seeking the solace only she could offer, a stillness he could find nowhere else.

The garden of the Red Keep was alive with the gentle hum of crickets and the muted rustle of leaves stirred by the evening breeze. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, mingling with the faint tang of salt from Blackwater Bay. The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected off the polished stone of the courtyard fountain.

Seated at a table draped in white linen, amidst the sprawling garden, Rhaenyra Targaryen watched her grandson with a quiet awe she had not felt in years. The boy was a Stark through and through, with his storm-grey eyes and the faintest dusting of freckles across his pale cheeks, but there was something unmistakable about him that spoke of his mother. His hair, pale as Luna's wing, caught the light with the faintest sheen of white, a gift from the dragonblood running through his veins.

Brandon tore a piece of warm bread from the loaf between them, his fingers deft and sure.

“You should have seen Rickon last week,” he said, his voice animated. “He was trying to teach Eddric to shoot. They’re both useless, of course. I keep telling Rickon to stop puffing his chest and aim properly, but he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she reached for a cup of spiced wine. “And you, darling? Were you the one to show them how it’s done?”

Brandon grinned, a flash of teeth that was all wolf. “Of course I was. Someone has to keep them in line.” His face softened as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Though Luce is worse than both of them combined. Did you know she refuses to sleep anywhere but on my shoulder these days? If I so much as move, she howls loud enough to wake the gods.”

The mention of her granddaughter brought a rare, genuine smile to Rhaenyra’s lips. “She sounds as demanding as her namesake,” she said, her voice touched with both fondness and melancholy.

“She’s a little terror,” Brandon agreed with a dramatic sigh, though his tone betrayed nothing but affection. “But I love her the most.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on him, her mind slipping into memories of Claere as a child—how her daughter would sit by the fire, pouring over flowers in a soft mumble, her silver hair glowing in the firelight. Brandon had that same intensity, that same spark of life. Yet where Claere had always carried an air of distant melancholy, Brandon seemed unburdened, his laughter bright and unguarded.

“You’re a breath of fresh air, Brandon,” Rhaenyra said softly, her words catching the boy’s attention. “I don’t know that I’ve laughed this much in years.”

Brandon tilted his head, his sharp features softening. “You should come North more often, Grandmother. You’d find plenty to laugh at with my brothers around. And Luce. She’s probably tormenting her septa as we speak.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, a sound that surprised even herself. Her hands reached for the bread, breaking off a piece and toying with it absentmindedly.

“Perhaps I will,” she murmured, though her heart clenched at the thought. The North was Claere’s world now, a place she had only touched briefly, where Rhaenyra’s legacy seemed small against the towering walls of Winterfell.

Brandon, as if sensing the shift in her mood, leaned forward, his tone light. “Tell me about Syrax,” he said, his grey eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Mother told me she was a golden dragon. Is she as fierce as she sounds?”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened further, her thoughts turning to the dragon she had not ridden in years. “Syrax is a queen in her own right,” she said, her voice reverent. “Golden as the sun, proud as the first flame. She was my companion through the best and worst of times.”

Brandon’s eyes lit up. “Do you still ride her?”

A shadow passed over her face, though her smile remained. “No, sweetling. My time as her rider has passed. But she’s still mine, and she would not turn away the blood of my blood.”

Brandon tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over his hair. “You should try and claim her,” she said softly, her words carried beyond their simplicity. “You’re of her blood, of her fire. She would accept you. I know it.”

Brandon blinked, startled. “Me?” he breathed, his voice tinged with awe.

“You, my brave boy,” Rhaenyra said, her tone firm. “You’ve got the blood of kings and queens in you, just as much as the wolves. You’re meant for something greater.”

For a moment, he seemed speechless, his grey eyes searching hers. Then, with a grin that was as wild and free as the North, he leaned back and said, “Maybe I will.”

The midday sun poured through the windows of the Red Keep’s solar, gilding the stone floor in rippling light. Outside, the distant din of King’s Landing played like a faraway melody: the clang of market bells, the chatter of traders, the call of gulls drifting from Blackwater Bay.

Inside, Claere lounged on a cushioned bench, her legs stretched out lazily across Cregan’s lap. One foot was bare, her silken slipper dangling precariously from her other toes as she shifted, wriggling to catch the light. Her fingers danced in the air, casting fleeting shadows against the high, arched walls. A butterfly flapped its wings, morphing into a crocodile that snapped its jaws before melting into a sparrow.

Cregan sat at ease, a knife in one hand, an orange in the other. He peeled it with the care of a man sharpening a blade, the rind coming away in one long spiral. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes flicked up to her now and then, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’ve gotten better at that,” he muttered, gesturing toward her shadow play. “Not as dreadful as the last butterfly you tried.”

Claere scoffed, her toes pressing lightly into his thigh. “I had two children hanging off my arms when I made that butterfly. I should like to see you do better with little Luce clawing at your hair.”

“I’d make a proper direwolf,” he said, leaning back as he flicked the orange peel onto the table. His grey eyes glinted with quiet challenge.

She raised an eyebrow, her hands pausing midair. “A direwolf, you say? Go on, show me.”

He set the orange down, wiped his hands on a cloth, and raised them. The shadows twisted into something vaguely lupine—more of a blob with pointed ears.

Claere giggled, her laughter soft but unrestrained. “Is that supposed to frighten me? It looks more like a sheep with horns.”

The golden light softened the sharp edges of his face, his Northern ruggedness somehow at odds with the languid peace of the moment. Claere traced his profile with her eyes—the set of his jaw, the faint curve of his smirk—and felt a pang of gratitude for this rare interlude.

“What's going on in your head?” he asked, not looking at her, his hands now occupied with dividing the orange into sections.

“How much you remind me of a bear every now and then,” she said with mock seriousness. “Big, grumpy, growling at anyone who comes too close.”

He chuckled, low and rumbling. “I’ll remember that the next time you call me wolf.”

She smiled, her hand reaching out to take a slice of the orange he offered her. The sweetness burst on her tongue, and she closed her eyes briefly, savouring it. The Red Keep, for all its burdens and shadows, had afforded them a rare reprieve, a pocket of time carved from the relentless press of duty.

But the peace shattered like glass underfoot when the door to the solar burst open. Two guards stumbled in, dragging a soot-covered figure between them. The acrid scent of smoke and singed hair preceded them, and Claere and Cregan froze, their shared moment breaking apart as reality surged in.

The boy's tunic was torn, his face smeared with soot and ash. A gash marred his cheek, sluggishly oozing blood. The acrid stench of smoke clung to him, mingling with the scent of charred leather. Beneath the grime, his sharp grey eyes were unmistakable.

“Brandon.”

It was Cregan who moved first, surging from his chair, the knife and orange clattering to the ground. His heavy boots echoed against the stone floor as he closed the distance, his towering frame lowering to kneel before the boy. His hands, rough and calloused, reached out instinctively, gripping Brandon’s shoulders, scanning his son for injuries.

“Who did this?” His voice was low, cold, edged with barely contained fury.

The guards, though hardened men of the Keep, faltered under the Warden of the North’s glare. One cleared his throat nervously. “He—he snuck into the Dragonpit, my lord.”

A tense silence followed as the words sank in.

“He tried to claim the Queen’s mount, Syrax.”

“Bran,” Claere sighed, her voice tinged with exasperation as she rubbed her temple, though the faint tremor in her hand betrayed her fear.

“Out,” Cregan growled, cutting her off. His voice was thunderous, and the guards didn’t wait for a second command. They dropped their hold on the boy and backed out of the room with hurried bows, the door slamming shut behind them.

Cregan rose to his full height, looming over his son. His face, lined with the weight of leadership and fatherhood, was dark with anger.

“Did you fall on your head one too many times, boy?” His voice was sharp with the ferocity of a father's fear, his Northern accent biting. “Do you want death so much you have to go find it? You thought to claim a dragon—dragon! Alone! Do you think yourself fireproof, huh?”

Brandon stood his ground, his chin lifting defiantly, shoulders squared, the faintest hint of his father’s stubbornness mirrored in his young face. He said nothing, his jaw tight, and with a deliberate step, he brushed past Cregan and toward his mother.

“I’m talking to you, Bran!” Cregan’s voice thundered again, but the boy didn’t falter. “You’re scrubbing the stables when we get back, do you hear me? The filthiest ones. I don't care how long. Every day until your arms give out!”

Brandon didn’t so much as flinch. He quietly moved to Claere’s side, his head bowing as he settled beside her.

“Sit,” Claere commanded softly, her tone holding none of Cregan’s fury but all of its authority. She reached to dampen a cloth from a jug, her movements calm and deliberate as she began to dab at the soot and grime streaking her son’s face.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Brandon obeyed, though his eyes flicked to his father’s looming form across the table.

“Don’t coddle him, Claere,” Cregan growled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He needs discipline, not mothering. Look at him; there's no remorse in his eyes. Ungrateful little... He could have—” He cut himself off, the words sticking in his throat.

“He did not. It's alright, Cregan,” Claere said quietly, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade.

Her husband’s jaw tightened, but when she glanced up at him, her steady gaze held him in place. It wasn’t reproachful, but neither was it yielding. Slowly, his shoulders eased, though the storm still lingered in his grey eyes.

“What happened, Bran?” Claere asked again, her focus returning to Brandon. Her voice was soft, coaxing.

“They were all going to the dragonpit,” Brandon mumbled, his voice barely audible. “Laena, Daeron. All of them left me behind, Ma.” He sniffled, his small chest hitching with restrained tears. “I wanted to go, too.”

Claere sighed, her hand pausing as she rubbed at the soot on his neck. She leaned forward slightly, her silver hair cascading like a curtain around them, creating a small, private world.

“And you thought claiming a dragon would make them see you differently?” she asked, her tone free of judgment.

Brandon hesitated, then nodded, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “I just wanted to be... like them. Like you.”

Claere’s breath caught at his words, but she schooled her expression, her thumb brushing his cheek as she cupped his face. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone—not to them, not to me. You’re already enough.”

Cregan shifted behind her, the sound of his boots against the stone floor filling the quiet. His anger had ebbed now, replaced by something deeper—guilt, perhaps, or worry.

“Bran,” Cregan said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “We don’t need dragons to make us strong. What makes you a man isn’t fire or glory—it’s honour, and knowing how to protect those you love.”

Brandon glanced at his father, his small face torn between shame and defiance. “But they think I’m weak because I don't have a dragon.”

“They don’t know you,” Cregan said sharply, stepping closer. “Not like me or your mother does. Not like your people do. You’ve got more fire in you than you know, son. You don’t need to risk your life to prove it.”

Claere glanced back at Cregan, her eyes softening at the rough edge in his tone. She reached out, resting her free hand on his arm.

“He’s young,” she said gently, reminding them of the earlier conversation they shared. “He’s learning.”

Cregan nodded, though he didn’t look at her. His focus remained on Brandon, the lines of his face softening at last. “A month in the stables,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll think twice next time before putting yourself in danger.”

Brandon’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Fine.”

Claere smiled faintly, dabbing at one last streak of soot. “There,” she said, brushing her hand over his hair. She placed a deep, long kiss on his cheek. “Clean enough to sit at the table again.”

The boy managed a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He slid off the bench and stood uncertainly between them, looking from his mother to his father.

Cregan let out a long breath and crouched to his son’s level, resting a broad hand on his shoulder. “Next time you feel left out,” he said quietly, “talk to me. We’ll find something worth your bravery—but not this. Not dragons.”

Brandon’s lips parted, his defiance flickering for a moment as if he might argue. But then, seeing the unyielding lines of his father’s face, he relented. His shoulders sagged, and his voice was smaller than before.

“Yes, Da.”

Cregan’s hand squeezed his shoulder once, a silent acknowledgement of the promise before he released him. He smacked the back of his head lightly, ushering him away.

“Get out of here and get cleaned,” Cregan told him. “You look like pigshit.”

Brandon lingered for a moment longer, then turned and padded toward the doorway.

Claere’s gaze followed her son as he disappeared into the corridor beyond. Her hand, resting on the table, tightened briefly into a fist before she relaxed her fingers.

“You were harder on him than usual,” she said softly, her voice carrying none of the reproach it might have.

Cregan didn’t answer immediately. He straightened with a groan, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his broad shoulders. Dragging a hand through his dark hair, he looked at her, his jaw tight.

“One of us had to be,” he replied, his voice low and heavy with something unspoken. “Taming dragons. Tsk. Foolish fuckin' lad.”

The air was crisp with the bite of late autumn, the scent of hay and manure thick in the stables back in Winterfell as Brandon Stark worked the rake over the uneven floor. His arms ached, his back stung from leaning too long, and his frustration simmered just beneath his skin. Scrubbing the stables wasn’t the worst punishment his father had ever doled out, but the indignity of it gnawed at him.

His brothers, as always, were more hindrance than help. Eight-year-old Rickon had armed himself with a brush and was vigorously sweeping, though his efforts did little more than stir the hay into scattered piles. Five-year-old Ed trailed behind him, copying his every move, while Luce, the youngest and the most spirited, darted about the stalls, her voice rising in an off-key rendition of "Foxy’s Hole." She seemed utterly oblivious to the tension simmering in her elder brother.

“What’s the capital like?” Ed asked suddenly, his small hands smudged with dirt as he crouched to pick through the straw. “Are there dragons everywhere?”

“And the Kingsguard,” Rickon added, pausing his dramatic sweeps to look up. “Is King Daemon as strong as they say? Did you see Caraxes?”

Bran froze for a moment, the rake still in his hands. The images came unbidden: the Red Keep with its high walls and colder shadows, the whispers in court that hissed behind every smile, the weight of Targaryen eyes on him. The songs had lied, just like the stories of dragons made for little boys’ dreams.

“It’s not what you’d think,” he muttered, his voice low as he looked away.

Ed wrinkled his nose, his face scrunching with confusion. “But it’s the Red Keep!” he insisted. “Mummy grew up there. It must be grand.”

Rickon elbowed him and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Bran’s just mad because Da made him clean out horse dung.”

Bran’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the rake handle until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to snap back but forced himself to take a breath instead. Straightening, he raked his fingers through his hair and spoke before he could think better of it.

“I’m going back next winter,” he said flatly. “To squire for the king. For Uncle Jace.”

The words dropped into the stillness like a stone into a frozen lake, shattering the moment. Rickon stilled mid-sweep, and Ed’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. Even Luce, who had been twirling in circles, stopped and turned her wide violet eyes on him, her expression unreadable.

“You’re leaving Winterfell?” Rickon blurted, aghast.

A sharp whistle sliced through the crisp air, cutting through the chatter and the rustling of hay. All four siblings froze, their heads snapping toward the gates where Cregan Stark stood, his broad frame outlined against the slate-grey sky. His weathered face carried a familiar authority and warmth, and with two fingers, he beckoned them forward. Rickon and Ed bolted instantly, eager to obey, their boots thudding against the frozen earth.

Bran lingered, his hands tightening around the rake. He cast a sidelong glance at Luce, who clutched his hand, her small fingers curling tightly around his. She wasn’t moving.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, sighing. “Don’t make him wait.”

Luce shook her head stubbornly, her violet eyes wide with mischief. “I don’t want to.”

Bran rolled his eyes, kicking the rake aside with frustration. “Fine. Let’s go.” He extended his finger to her, and with her tiny hand wrapped around his, he trudged toward their father, his steps heavy with reluctance.

When they reached the gates, Rickon and Ed were already beaming under Cregan’s rough hands as he tousled their hair. His gaze shifted, landing on Luce as she hovered behind Bran, half-hidden. He arched a brow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Snuck away from your septa again, have you?” His voice was a low rumble, laced with gentle reproach.

Luce’s grip on Bran’s leg tightened as she tried to disappear behind him entirely. Cregan’s brow lifted higher.

“Rickon, Ed,” he said, his tone turning firm, though there was still warmth beneath it. “Take your sister back to her lessons. She’s not to be running loose.”

“But—” Luce began, her protest dying on her lips as Rickon swooped in, his grin wolfish. With a quick motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“No use arguing, Luce,” Rickon teased, cackling as she squirmed and kicked her little legs. “You’re outmatched.”

“Bran!” she wailed, reaching for him as Rickon carried her off. Ed trailed after them, giggling at her indignation.

Bran watched them go, his arms crossing over his chest, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze to the ground. The heat of his frustration simmered again, bubbling up beneath the surface. The stables were punishment enough; he didn’t need another lecture.

“You’re sulking,” Cregan observed, his deep voice cutting through Bran’s thoughts. There was a faint teasing edge to his tone, but it was undercut by quiet understanding.

“I’m not,” Bran snapped, though the words sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.

Cregan stepped closer, towering over his son with that familiar weight of presence. He reached out and nudged Bran’s shoulder lightly, forcing him a step forward. “Come on, lad,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ve something to show you.”

Bran frowned, his arms tightening across his chest. “If this is another punishment—”

“Far from it,” Cregan interrupted, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “But keep dragging your feet, and I might change my mind.”

Bran sighed heavily but relented, falling into step behind his father. Together, they crossed the courtyard toward the kennels, the air alive with the low growls and soft whines of the direwolves housed within. The sharp scent of pine and frost hung thick around them, mingling with the earthy musk of the animals.

At the edge of the enclosure, Cregan stopped before a small pen. The low growls and soft whines of the wolves fell away as Bran followed his gaze. Inside, a lone wolf paced nervously, its coat a deep, glossy black that seemed to drink in the pale light. Its sharp yellow eyes darted toward them, wary and unblinking, its every movement tense with distrust.

Cregan crouched by the pen, his hands steady as he unlatched it. “Come closer,” he said, his voice low but gentle.

Bran hesitated, his eyes fixed on the wolf. Its wiry frame was all sharp angles, a creature of feral instincts and quiet resilience. Yet something in its gaze—something untamed and fierce—stirred something deep in Bran, a strange pull he didn’t quite understand.

Cregan slipped inside first, his movements deliberate as he reached for the wolf.

“Found him in the woods,” he said, his tone soft but resonant. “All alone. Half-starved, snarling at shadows.” He chuckled quietly, scratching behind the wolf’s ears. The creature flinched at first but gradually stilled under his touch. “Sniveling little fighter,” Cregan added, glancing back at Bran with a small, knowing smile. “Reminded me of someone.”

Bran bristled, though he stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his indignation.

Cregan cradled the wolf with surprising gentleness, lifting it from the pen and holding it against his broad chest. The wolf let out a low, hesitant growl, but Cregan’s steady hands quieted it. “Go on,” he said, extending the wolf toward Bran.

Bran’s breath caught as the creature’s sharp gaze locked onto his. For a moment, he froze, unsure. Then, carefully, he reached out, taking the wolf into his arms. Its warmth was startling, a living, breathing contrast to the biting cold of the air. It wriggled slightly, testing his grip, but Bran held firm.

Cregan watched him, his expression softening. “What would you have named your dragon?” he asked suddenly, his tone light but pointed.

The question hit harder than Bran expected, and his grip on the wolf tightened. He frowned, his shoulders tensing.

“You don’t have to rub salt in the wound, Da,” he muttered. “I know what I don’t have.”

“Humor me,” Cregan pressed, his voice steady, his eyes holding Bran’s. There was no teasing now, just quiet patience.

Bran hesitated, his face heating with embarrassment. “Frostbane,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s laugh rang out, a warm, rich sound that echoed through the kennel. Bran scowled, turning away, but his father’s hand was quick to catch his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Cregan said, his voice softening. He reached out, his large hand brushing the wolf’s sleek black fur. “Frostbane’s a damn fine name. Look at him—sharp, fierce, a survivor. Just like you.”

Bran blinked, startled by the words. He glanced down at the wolf in his arms, its yellow eyes watching him with an intensity that mirrored his own.

“He’s yours,” Cregan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Not just any wolf, Bran. A direwolf for a Stark who’s more than he thinks he is. Who doesn’t need dragons to be great.”

Bran’s throat tightened. The weight of his father’s words settled over him, heavy and warm, easing the sting of the day’s frustrations. “Mine?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving.

Cregan nodded, ruffling the pup’s ears. “Yours. He’ll grow to match you—strong, proud. A king of the wilds, like his friend.”

Bran’s chest swelled with a mixture of pride and relief. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting as the wolf squirmed in his arms.

“Frostbane,” he said again, testing the name aloud.

“A Stark name,” Cregan said, watching his son with a faint smile. “And one that’ll make the whole of Winterfell remember who you are.”

it's humbling when your inbox is as empty as your soul :') This feature was just something off the top of my head lmao I don't even know if it's that good but worth a shot!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

304 notes · View notes